Autumn

Autumn is ready to happen. And here it is just something else. The colours resemble those of my childhood drawings, displaying every possible shade between red, brown and yellow. And the wind is so violent, it beats up the trees till the leaves whirl down in rage. They’re so many that street cleaners need to pile them up or it’d be too slippery on the ground.

Already wrapped in my jacket, in Tiergarten I breathed the autumn in the making and downed every sunray as if it were my last. And there’s a high chance my last will be soon. But then the dimmest beam will be reflected by thousands of swirling leaves and it will all look warm for a little while.

To compare myself to a falling leave would be playing it easy. And it would feel rather profane.

A friend entering my room went like “hey, but your bookshelf is upside down”. I had never cared to check the screws, and it looked just as fine to me. This Dane glanced at it once. Sometimes I feel like that shelf, but it takes a Scandinavian to spot it and put things back in order. If only I worked like an IKEA piece of furniture.

As I sink into bed to read about the melancholic love of an inveterate monogamous clown, leaves keep falling, or maybe just leaving, which to them is just another way for living.

Les sanglots longs 

 Des violons 

 De l'automne 

 Blessent mon coeur 

D'une langueur 

  Monotone.

 Tout suffocant 

 Et blême, quand 

  Sonne l'heure, 

 Je me souviens 

 Des jours anciens 

  Et je pleure,

 Et je m'en vais 

 Au vent mauvais 

Qui m'emporte 

 Deçà, delà, 

 Pareil à la 

  Feuille morte.