Melancholia

The morning dawned on a clear, crisp start-of winter day. The white horse by the river (I affectionately call it my unicorn) was cold so it was wearing one layer of some kind of horse coat around its back and belly. It wasn't looking particularly white today, its legs and neck were covered in slight yellow. Its companion the black horse, which would usually graze on the same ground, was nowhere to be seen. There are a few patches of lawn fenced off for these two horses at the point where my bus rides down to the river, as a backdrop a narrow bend in the river, and on the other side a hill with a little castle ruin perched on it. Sometimes a ship carrying construction materials glides around the bend up the river smoothly, causing the water to ripple beautifully. Wolfgang Krieger and similar names are written on the bow.

The snow yesterday had left its powder on the coniferous trees on the hills and as I took the train to town I realized what a beautiful morning it was, with icy hills and golden light shining on the tree tops that were not completely bare yet. The passengers' faces, flushed with the cold, revealed that a new season was beginning. Features shone out clearly on the pale skin, with blushes on the cheeks and a freshness in the air that only winter can bring. I found myself wondering why the same is not true of February. Lighting conditions had to be similar, I concluded after a moment's thought, first wondering why I did not have the later months of winter in my mind as equally beautiful. Probably the leaves make up a lot of the effect.

The change of seasons is an ever-current topic in the temperate zones. My mind is full of the glow of the previous season and as I move into the day looking forward to the new season I realize with a pang of pain that the old one must end first. Movement means leaving things behind, with memories trickling and fading away like arpeggio chords on a piano.