Autumn by Aleksandr Golovin
Or is it autumn in full swing? I do not know what it is in England. I see pictures of autumn from all over the world in my computer, and then I look out of the window, and see that the trees are still green here. Sometimes I am surprised by a lone tree standing in the middle of the path I take, with its leaves all a fiery red. Maybe it will be properly autumn when all the trees have all the colours that the picture postcards promise.
If this blog were a book, then this would be the first post in this new section. And it would talk about disappointments. But I cannot write about disappointments as eloquently now, as I complain continuously about it in my mind. My computer plays Chopin's Op. 15, Nocturne No. 2 in F Major. It has rarely failed to lift my spirits. I let only the dim light above my study light up this part of my room, while the rest bathes in semi-darkness; and with the curtains drawn back, I can see the green trees, shrubs, myriad lights from the windows of the student halls and the hotel bathing the narrow path outside, by a quick turn of my head. The special arrangement of lights and music is to recreate magic in my room, as it had once accidentally surfaced a few days ago. My attempt today, however, is artificial, because I am trying to recreate that accidental magic with a combination of music and dim lights.
My old friend, depression, sinks in as I realise that all my friends and the people I love are sleeping or getting ready for bed in a different part of the world; it gets a firm hold of me when I look out of the window and see drunken students socialising loudly as they walk down the path in hoards; it clenches its pincers in my mind and body as I pine for fulfilling conversation, and find myself weaving imaginary dialogues with myself.
Darkness descends; cold descends; I make attempts to slowly return to my book.