Vincent Van Gogh, Autumn Landscape with Four Trees
It's raining, it's windy, warm though.
It's the transition from summer into winter, the autumn.
It's like when you finish something but you're still back there,
feeling unable to move on or to get over.
It's your feelings that so perfectly match to this period, which is nothing but a change from something to something else and then to something which is so much different than the previous somethings, even if it includes them.
All I am saying is that life moves periodically but we don't.
One of the past days I realised that at the next Olympic Games in London in 2012 I will be almost 30, most of my friends (and I maybe) will be married with children, life will be so different as an adult with responsibilities. This last long word sounds quite scary. Hope that life (once again) will show me the way itself.
It's raining cats and dogs now, oh here is the lightning and, one-two-three-four- five-six, the thunder. And again.
A part of a poem
Leonard Cohen, Here it is, Book of Longing
And here you are hurried,
And here you are gone;
And here is the love,
That it’s all built upon.
Here is your cross,
Your nails and your hill;
And here is your love,
That lists where it will
May everyone live,
And may everyone die.
Hello, my love,
And my love, Goodbye.
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