The Certain Fall

Nevertheless, it had filled me with hope. I was a child. I was sixteen again. I was sixteen over and over again.

One hot summer noon had shrivelled up all the roses. They were good enough to pluck and put in my diary. The first leaves of fall became yellow and my heart was mellowed again.

I looked back at the summers gone by. The promises, the sweet nothings, the wild running through the fields. But oh, the fall comes. And it comes with certainty. All the frivolity will go away. There will be no roses. No kind passageways to walk through. You look around and find a strange familiarity in the air.

It’s coming back again. Each year, the cycle of hope hits a halt. You’re allowed to get off and walk. What you see is clear. It’s barren and often unkind. The beauty once so rich is now so melancholic.

It won’t ever happen to me.

You had once walked with primroses circling around your neck and daisies in your eyes. Everything has dried up now. It has happened after all. You open your clenched fists. They hold nothing.

Did they ever hold something?

When you look around, you find certainty. You had nothing. You came from nothingness and that’s why it was the only thing familiar to you. You learnt the self when you looked around. You learnt the other. You submerged. Indulged. You lost. You loved. But it was all a lie.

Every smile and laughter, remorse and regret. It circled around and you danced the same dance. Until it was fall. And then you mourned.

You sat in the garden of primroses. You weeped under the sickle-moon’s shine. You watched the sunset and sunrise. At first ominous to your fearful eyes and soon peaceful. As alone as you were. As still. As powerless.

Everything that is to happen will happen. The joy will be transient and you’ll dance its dance when it comes around. No matter how many times you circle around, you’ll still hope this time it would last. You’ll rage against the time. And wallow in your bitterness. Lament the losses.

Until it’s fall.

Soon its shadow will follow you around. Reminding you, the sidewalk would be empty and you would walk your head down to a home you once built with many. It is your very own now.

You’ll find. It’s only you everywhere. You’ll find, to love is to mourn.

Nevertheless, it had filled me with hope. I was a child. I was sixteen again. I was sixteen over and over again.

You’ll run after joy one summer noon again. You’ll forget it all as the seasons change.