
There is, indeed, something sick in the way things seem to repeat every few years. And I wonder if it's us who, instinctively, make things happen this way, so that we can reach some sort of secure patterns. Or maybe it's just unfinished and forgotten business that should be solved, eventually.
One's inner world is also subject to these awkward recurrences. Major moods and fears keep coming back, old pains strike hard when we're most tired, as well as powerful feelings related to powerful concepts.
But some of them are forever dead, or, at least, I for one have never encountered them again. It's the little feelings we used to inhale, the little details that went along with the major moods.
I can barely recall the magic i felt at a certain age, during a certain season. Many autumns passed, and winters also, and still I am here in October wondering where I put the pixie dust. There's the air and some of the smells, but where are the others? I could sit on a bench and watch the leaves, I could go out in the snow a few months later, do things exactly as I used to, and still nothing. The atmosphere has changed, and some discrete sensations will only come back as a vague memory.
And I wonder, is life getting less and less colorful as we approach our end? If so, death must be a blessing, after all.
Or maybe, just maybe, some should stay dead for good, and one should embrace new realms of smells and sunlight.
And yet, I wonder if winter will ever be the way it felt the day I took that picture.
