The cold inviting itself for the night, and no matter how much autumn stuffs us with embalmed afternoons, the mornings become cooler and cooler. Now you have to cover yourself a little, lift the collar, fear that the cold will attack the bronchial tubes. It is the fragile passage of the season when everything goes wrong and recurring habits have to come out of their hibernation.
Always that beautiful light. People are happy to repeat it to each other, the days are beautiful, even relaxing. Donald and Hilary are struggling, hurricanes are devastating the islands, but Quebec is purring with colors. One would think that it is at peace, although it is an obvious illusion.
The leaves, already on the ground, compete in agony. Photosynthesis now behind them, they die one after the other, drunk with juices.
My eyes barely observe them all, get tired of them and my feet tread them shamelessly. They are not all equal in the face of death, some trees are not as artistic as others, more skilled at undressing. We would really like to die like that, a beautiful death, never premature, always in the season. And especially in the silence of the residential areas.
It is almost a luxury when you hear about the horrors being woven elsewhere on the planet. We almost want to apologize for declaring ourselves happy, at least to lie to ourselves about this seasonal happiness, since the dramas are not so far from us either, probably in these same houses bathed in such mild autumn. I know all too well that life is only an autumnal mixture of life and decadence, a constant and normal, slow, mixing of time. Drama, discomfort and also comfort are everywhere, in my soul, in our unspoken words, in our silence, in the mists that inhabit the space between words and conversations.
It is often said, “if the walls could talk”. I would add: “If everything that was kept silent were to come out in the open, what kind of season would we have?”