There is something in the air which announces the demise of everything that is obsolete, of everything that belongs no more to the present day. Peculiar, isn’t it, taking into consideration the fact that autumn is generally thought of as a season of alteration. Regardless of such misconceptions, I regard autumn as a new beginning. To what extent this is correct is inextricably linked to our conceptions, albeit I can ascertain a pattern, or at least try to.
Despite my apparent arrogance, which seemed to try to treat others’ thoughts as common patterns, this is not my intention. Instead, I try to focus on myself, with little hope to catch a glimpse of others’ feelings. I cannot be sensible enough to connect with people. I might have had this quality at one point, but certain events changed everything. But that’s not what this is about. My digression may resemble a poor procrastination, but in fact it’s only my self-esteem trying to repudiate the very process of expressing myself.
According to what I stated in the beginning, I regard autumn as a season of change, of forgetting the past and focusing on the future or at least on the present. Perhaps this is due to important changes in my life in the past occurring this season. Maybe it’s my lugubrious side talking, but I feel comfortable witnessing the perishing nature. I am “endowed” with a nefarious ability to be careless in front of such alteration. I am thrilled to see how the old things are replaced by new things, I am eager to discover what lies in front of me. I do not deny the fact that the past is important, but I leave it behind. And I do this mostly during this season, because there is something in the morbid state of nature which leads me to that.
I have never claimed to be perfect. The old me might have said that at times, but I do not recognize him. He is dead for me,as it is the past in front of autumn. He is dead to me, for he never tried to accept what he really was. He tried to conform to what others imposed, he tried to be one of them. But I am now sure that I am not one of them. I am everything they hate, albeit my actions might not reflect this. Whilst they put their hopes in the hands of a distant god, i put my faith in myself. I am not under the delusions of grandeur. Instead, I am conscious of my qualities, as well as of my drawbacks. I will be increasingly peculiar to them , for they will hate me for not be one of them. Words mentioned beforehand, but what can I do if there is no other means through which I could express this better? Perhaps the vocabulary should be “murdered” and a new one be introduced.
After all, it’s autumn…
“Majesties and virtues, love and blindness,
Righteous one! Dumber and more revolting still than a hunting bitch!
I am the one who suffers and who rebels against you!” Rimbaud, L’homme juste