seasons

I never liked the question about my favourite season. The further winter is from me, the more I miss it. The distance of summer days sparks longing for bright, warm nights. Autumn may not be here yet, but I feel it. I remember the smell of young trees in June, a colour of sun-touched skin, the awakenings and opening the window where the world appeared green and yellow –the colours my memory has kept. Now, every morning carries a breeze. It’s a breeze of fading leaves and a call of first winds.

I moved to Paris a year ago and the automnal image of the city is the one I carry in my mind. Somehow, it feels more familiar. The noise of children playing in school’s backyards, they just got back from holiday. The sun lighting up Haussmann’s architecture is not so vague, but rather orange, shimmering gold. The Pere-Lachaise and stacks of brown leaves. Baguettes fresh from the ovens warming up my hands.

Sometimes all we have is a collection of images inside our heads that we can stick to. I feel this is how we approach seasons. We temember each in a unique way, each carries a meaning and a recollection of a life once lived. How was the sky outside and what were the sounds like on this exact moment you were walking down those beautiful or hideous streets with heart full of feeling towards people you miss. A relation between time-the surroundings-the feeling-the mindset is a very strong one, creating attachments to things as little as the particular sunlight or the specific smell of the ground. If anyone thinks it’s a question of sensitivty, he’d rather dig deep into one’s mind. I believe everyone can find those links.