November is grey. The brilliant colours of summer have gone and faded, and the sky has lost its azure colour. The Sun seeks refuge behind the clouds, fearing that the cold would smother her life-giving warmth.

November is also a month of transition. That summery girl you knew in summer has lost her sunshine, and you wonder if it’s gone forever. People wear more layers of clothes, as the warmth of summer gives way almost reluctantly to the cold of winter. A troubling fog descends upon the city, blurring everything which was once crystal-clear to see. The birds sing less than before, and everything is quiet.

The silence is so deafening it drives some to seek out company – the bars are still full at night, and the university is noisier than ever. The clamour drowns out the silence, although she is always there. Others find solace in the silence and enjoy her company, for Silence is Golden. In her embrace, one can finally talk to oneself, finally hearing the inner voice which is never heard in the company of others, in spite of what this voice has to say and to offer.

And so you listen, attentively. This voice does not speak in words – it’s a form of communication which is so personal that only you would understand it.

November is the herald of winter – it comes, and in a blink of an eye, it’s gone. But November is faithful, and you know for sure when he will come knocking on your door again, perhaps on a cold midnight, holding a small bag and asking for candy, or perhaps as an old, wizened man, apologising for the cold which is about to come. Or perhaps you may never see November. But don’t worry – November understands.