Winter.

“And yet the only exciting life is an ordinary one.” – Virginia Woolf



Finally I learned to decipher the fog. I come from a tropical beach city where temperatures rarely fluctuate +/- 5 degrees all year round. We are never too hot nor too cold and have massive amounts of rain and sunshine and this eternal summer is the standard to which I hold the weather all over the world. Even the most brilliantly beautiful cities with places right out of a picture postcard are reduced to masses of gray damp if the weather is not agreeable. Winter is my least favourite of seasons. I get lost in this maze of short days. As soon as I open my eyes its dusk already and all I am left to do is count stars on my fingertips because the night’s going to last forever and its too late to stop now.

I cannot for the life come to romanticize bare trees, icy winds and the monochromatic landscape. I know that these elements embody the cycle of life and la-di-la but there is nothing beautiful about the death of nature. And there is certainly nothing romantic about dripping noses, cramped fingers, wet socks and the flu every second week. 15 layers of clothing and huge ear muffs aren’t cute. This cold January has turned me into an obstinately hopeless grump.

To counter these effects of winter I started reading some saucy, hot Greek mythology. Now I know what keeps those Gods and Goddesses busy. I eat bright red apples all day long, listen to Harry Potter audio books, miss home, watch George Carlin on youtube, crochet colourful flowers and miss home some more. I just wish I could make up this lost time in Spring or Monsoon and life wouldn’t seem so fleeting to me in those days. In winters I lose the demarcation between days and this blur of time just swallows up the most potent part of me. I wish the sun would come soon and help me find myself again.