A Letter to Autumn

The first time I met you, I cried
And here is why:

In my earliest memory, I knew that you exist. A whisper in the night, a footstep lighting up the dark. Perhaps it was a shooting star across that dying twilight skyline, or a book of many things that was given to me. Perhaps it was him who knew ever so much, perhaps it was her, saying goodbye. But after all that come and go, I've dreamed of you, the most wonderful, most captivating, I have dreamed of meeting you time after time.

Days and days I spent in quiet corners of the library, unlit, unnoticed by the children with mischievous eyes and cruel laughter, and adults who looked pretty much the same. They couldn't have known that I thought, out of all the things in the world, of you, for they would've laughed at me.

To me you are the impossible, something of a fairy tale, but you are real, that I surely know. The adults, they talk about you too, some do not believe that you exist, although some say that you do... not here, but certainly somewhere. Some say you are what defines life, and some say you belong to the world of the dying and all things that pass. Some have been hurt because of you, and some devoted their lives for you. They say there is a kind of magic in your touch that turns the world into something different, and emptiness into something more. They say that you are the music of lovers and the birth of poetry. And all the dreams I have dreamed of meeting you kept me longing, looking, waiting every year by the window, when would you come?

But cold winds blew after rain and you never arrived, I grew up and grew tired of waiting. Perhaps I did lost a bit of the gleam in my eyes, but one day I woke up and realized that there was no way you could be here with me. So I packed my bags and put on my hat and walked, and I did not know how far, but they said I crossed horizons time and again just to find you.

I looked for you everywhere, in the eyes of everyone I've met, I looked for you in Ines de la Cruz and Leav and van Gogh, the Shelleys and Wilde, in Tchaikovsky and Lavigne and Chopin, Poe and Plath and Einstein.

I looked for you among Fitzgeralds and Hemingways, Austens and Eyres. I looked for you amidst the rings of Saturn, a lonely Champs Elysee cafe, where the desert roses are blooming, and the river that flows beyond the Bridge of Sighs. I looked for you in all the colors and secret streets I never knew existed, in marches and ballads and laments and lullabies, operas and mariachis. I looked for you in the unfurling lily petals and the wings of a butterfly, in morning dewdrops, carnelians bright and misty skies.

I searched for the shadow of you in various shades of ideals, of faith, of desires. At moments I even put aside my own dream for cheap summers and the tang of a sunburned heart. Those days still haunt me.

In the end, it took me eighteen years, twenty one hurtful years to one day stood there, among the falling leaves, painting the world in amber and ember like living fire. And in the first moment our eyes met, I knew that my journey was over.

The first time I met you, I cried

Written in this book
English Stuffs
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Stranger in the Night
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