melencolia 1, durer, 1954.
tis a real turn toward winter today.
the lightest, but real flurries in the pale sunlight.
3pm afternoon is no longer full and round, but pale gold with hint of grey blue. and by midnight, the world is quieter. much more quieter. only the softest whispers of stars, if they havent covered themselves up with clouds.
we say hello to the decline to the next apex couple weeks ago, on halloween. grey dove feathers fly into the door steps, with echos of once beating hearts. and one night, leaves fall. they no longer dance with the wind. they break. they shred. tiny pieces. till no more.
tis a hard time, autumn.
i love the melancholia of autumn. i love the simple reminder, cinis in cinerem, pulvis in pulverem. ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
without the dark night velvel blanket, i suppose the glistening lights and gentle shadows of people indoors wont shine outside. without the cold, there would be no great warmth that hugs one as soon as one steps inside.
i bike in the cold. but not in wind.
wind makes people drive irrationally. and drives people to have short temper. furioso.
Es schlafen die Menschen in ihren Betten,
Träumen sich manches, was sie nicht haben,
Tun sich im Guten und Argen erlaben
it's a particularly difficult autumn, autumn of 2015.
things are moving slow. some people are fading out, gently but surely. and it hurts quite a bit whenever im reminded that two of my best friends are no longer in town. i calm self down, telling myself over and over again, that it's been the case, as long as i can remember, that i always had constellation of friends, never a small garden. and there he is, a gentle and royal friend, as he always is. without him, it would be hard. and the great technology helps, connecting minnow to minnow, across the vast clear sky, where sun sets on different times.
i often imagine of going out and joining the merrymaking. but somehow, i stop, at the door.
i undo my shoe laces. and i sink into the deafening silence that only an empty house can sing out, full coloratura. is this what we call loneliness? or is it simply life?
journey begins from oneself and it will end in oneself. so humming the tune of the winterreise, i sink into another bottomless pool of oblivion. melancholia.
Was vermeid' ich denn die Wege,
Wo die ander'n Wand'rer geh'n,
Suche mir versteckte Stege,
Durch verschneite Felsenhöh'n ?