Our seasons | Guy Verville
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Our seasons

Modifié le : 2019/07/20

Of course, autumn inspires the poet. It is a sweet season, heralding the bitterness of winter, but, with good weather helping, we are not yet concerned about it. The weather is fine, death is there to diffuse perfumes of appeasement, the air is warm, the light compresses the shadows, skilfully mixing the colors. Everything is in its place, in the order of things. You feel almost eternal.

We all know that this does not last. Already at the beginning of September, we were plunged into an early cold. It didn’t take much longer for the lungs to cough, the noses to run and the air conditioning systems in the buildings to derail, blowing sometimes hot and sometimes cold. Make no mistake, the seasons are moving forward, it’s inevitable, it’s like the ocean, everything is stronger than us.

If I stop for a moment and, from the very end of my antennae, try to find out where I am in the day of my life, maybe I could believe that I am living my fall. After all, my mind seems to be endowed with beautiful light. I have lived long enough to be able to properly mix the wisdom of it all. And I am convinced that a young adult will perceive me as a shadow maker. I could conclude that my summer is over. My joints start to stiffen, I prefer slow gestures, slack emotions to stormy storms or too extravagant dances.

On the other hand, I am very badly placed, thus at the center of my existence, to know its departure or purpose. It is only when we die that we can know what seasons we will have gone through. And even then, we won’t have time to notice. If I am like my maternal grandmother, I am only in the summer of my life. But if tomorrow, I get caught in a car, you could say that I was already in my winter. It takes a certain courage to make fun of it or to care about it. I think most people don’t do that. They switch to one side or the other. I am the first to do so when, for example, I spend my whole day coding web pages that have nothing to do with my existential questions or when, failing to make my budget, I spend a lot of time writing these lines (not to mention the usual chores to accomplish groceries, cleaning, renovations to complete).

Does peace really exist in our minds? Are we these hurricanes that nothing can tame? How to learn from the passing seasons? Shut up, because there are no answers? Or to say, because memory is so frivolous? To walk, in any case, because doing nothing anymore is a guaranteed winter.

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