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Autumn

It is that time of the year again. With chilly winds brushing the hair out of my face in the morning when I leave for college to how I edge closer to my pillow when I am switching channels on the TV at midnight. Yes, Autumn is here.

The beautiful leaves cracking underneath my bare feet on the ground are shouting to me, Autumn is here. Autumn is decked with the beauties of nature. The dry clouds float in the sky. Most of them are white and bulging. They look like sail-boats fluting on the sea. The beautiful Autumnal flowers are in bloom. All the day they look at sun. The white and blue lilies bloom in the evening. Some of the lilies are red too. All the night, they gaze at the moon. The glossy moon of Autumn beams bright. The moonlit sky looks like a beautiful blue glass. The Autumnal breeze passes through the green bought of the trees and leaves rustle. They make a dreamland of light and shade.

It was one of those days when i get latish in the morning, when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.The cool touch of the Autumnal wind works magic in me. I feel a thrilling sensation all over body and new vision come to my mind. that season of the cycle which is solely made for the broken souls. The lovers of art. The ones lost in time. The poets, the painters, the writers, the philosophers, the feeders of all senses. Those who are gifted to feel a bit more than the ordinary. Autumn is for them. And how strange it is, it too is as broken as them.

The hot coffee mug in my left hand and the lite cigarette in my right are talking about how it was so different last year. I was this dead even then, maybe my demon back then was someone else but the pain was still there. The coffee knows. But the Cigarette is new to my cold heart. And since it came into my life the stories became a bit more intense. This Autumn is indeed different. Unrequited love, they call it. And we the writers just feed of it. We breathe in the anxiety, the hurt, the pieces of our sliced heart and the ashes of our vaguely burnt cigarettes. And on their edge we create a new tale.
Every Autumn has a story; untold. Awaiting the winter snow to hide it for ever.

Dear readers, keep reading, keep sharing and stay tune...
©Vanza Vishal
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