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.