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Photons of autumn

It is said that death is a fall but that its direc­tion is rel­a­tive. The soul would be eter­nal and, to be incar­nat­ed in a body, it must accept to die. This is the first fall. When the car­nal enve­lope can’t take it any­more, it lets itself fall towards the inan­i­mate. At the same time, the soul goes up in the inef­fa­ble. This is the oth­er fall. There may be a low­er lev­el, but I do not know.

The Gnos­tics thought no less of God, born of Abraxas, man­i­fest­ing him­self in the supreme Good, while the Demon, his twin, would embody Evil. Same birth, same fall. It is not I who says it. I did not go to check in the cave of my arche­types. Nor have I been knocked off my horse by any appari­tion. Maybe it will come before the evening is over… or never.

Every autumn is, for me, an oppor­tu­ni­ty to repeat my infat­u­a­tion with the out­crop­ping light of the morn­ing. Still cling­ing to the branch­es or already fad­ing on the side­walks, the leaves absorb the pass­ing pho­tons with what lit­tle life they have left. The fall seems hor­i­zon­tal, and I am tak­en by the mild ver­ti­go of accept­ing what is.

This sea­son is per­haps what brings me clos­er to the silence of the prophets, of those who know with­out being able to explain. When one knows, it seems, one is silent, and by this silence alone, every­thing springs forth. The prob­lem would come from the dis­ci­ples who mix every­thing up, putting on robes, charms and jewelry.

It would also seem that only poets know what autumn is all about, even if they are talk­a­tive. But I would­n’t put my hand in the fire. I know so lit­tle, blind in my every­day­ness and heartburn.

What I am sure of, how­ev­er, is that I am the prophet of my exis­tence. I will nev­er be able to explain it. My unique silence will cer­tain­ly not earn me any dis­ci­ples. How­ev­er, I will still swal­low as much as I can of the light of my breaths and gorge myself on the inven­tions of my con­scious­ness until I leave this body with the dead leaves.

I would real­ly like to die dur­ing autumn because I will have the strength to be a poet and silent.

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