We live in such stark contrasts, that we forget about the beautiful intermediates. We know so much about days and nights, but little do we say about dusks and dawns (but that is okay because somewhere they leave us speechless).
So, what I am trying to say is that the gradient intermediates are a little unexplained. And that is the beauty of them, of course. Unconsciously we instantly feel about summers and winters whenever they are mentioned. But autumn is my muse. And I am sure if you are a poet too, you don’t need to read this entire article to understand. Chances are, you probably know about it by now
Autumns are… what do you say ?
They are a living example of how beautiful it is to let go of stuff that has died on you. How scintillating it is to part from what yours, because eventually they will be back to you.
They are a living paradox, and hence every writer’s muse. They are death, distance, separation; yet they are also beautiful, calm, and they are not even an end.
If you are imaginative enough you will agree instantly that, we have autumn, hence we can be sure that even death is not an end. That death is not dark, cold and harsh. But it is a little warm, a little chilly, a little soft with a little bit of crunch.
It is the time of the year when the air is calmer and the sound of the wind a little filling. When those rustic leaves cover the ground, and slow breeze brushes them; you are sure to fall in love. The nature’s version of sepia is such a thing that it makes every moment spent there immemorial.
Immemorial reminds me of how autumn is a really short time in an year, and how does it metaphorically lay down in front of us our entire lives like we have never known.
So how do you feel now when someone says autumn?
– Ananya Talwar
Edited by Mrinaal Datt
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