Romanian version, here.

            I have been saying for a while now how much I like autumn. And I think this, somehow, comes with age. When I was a child I couldn’t wait for the summer to come, obviously because there was the summer holiday, and for the winter, thanks to the holidays packed with presents and snow. Spring and autumn only existed as in-betweens to what I was really looking forward to all year. Only for a few years now, as it’s been getting harder to stand the scorching heat of the summer, which isn’t how it used to be, have I realised how much I’ve lost because I haven’t really experienced the other seasons. However, the first walks on the park alleys were in autumn, through the rustle of yellow leaves, I liked walking on that leaf rug crafted by autumn. And I liked the chestnuts falling everywhere, out of which I used to pick the shiniest and most perfectly shaped ones. Today I enjoy all of these in a different manner, but I miss that idyllicism and I know I will never find it again. We’re different at every age, but that cunning heart of ours can throb the same. It’s just that we don’t process its impulses the same way.

But autumn is always about new beginnings, even though nature gets ready to go to sleep. It’s about what you reap and what you do with the fruits. A season of decisions and conclusions, but also a season of feasting your eyes on landscapes with colours that no painter can match. With the sorrow of earlier, but more spectacular sunsets. I regret every autumn I haven’t received and experienced fully every single day. I can’t say every second because it’s hard to be aware of your life every second, although we would all probably like that. Autumn manages to bring out of a grown-up soul that forgotten romanticism of springs gone by. I believe each season leaves somewhere in the drawers of the soul a memory like a breeze, something, a smell, a colour, an image, a voice, but mostly a sense of longing. Longing for what we were in each of our seasons.

No, we’re not the same as in past autumns, nor as in any other season. It’s a confirmation that the only certainty is the perfect cycle of nature, in which we’re only bearers of emotions, dreams and regrets. Yes, autumn holds nostalgia, but not sadness. Ultimately, all we are is the sum of all the journeys made through this seasonal dance, ongoing frames, playing until the end of the film.