The middle of December and snow has yet to fall. The early morning sparkles white, frost has taken the place of snow. In a season of darkness it is a refreshing sight. Yesterday, before the darkness of winter came to dominate the landscape, the dominant colors were brown and grey. A world robbed of its colors by the cold weather winter always brings. To make up for this loss of color and life in the world snow falls. The soft snow that has fallen from the skies cover the lands and transform the brown and grey into a sparkling white.

The world is frost is a marvellous sight. What water the air held suspended between sky and earth has frozen into sparkling crystals. Less fragile and they would have been as dear to mankind as diamonds. Every surface of nature’s has been carefully covered with frost. The branches of the trees are yet again holding wonders. Not leaves nor flowers nor fruit, but the tribute to symmetry crystals of ice feature.

The green grass of summer that had turned into the brown grass of late autumn is now covered in white. From afar the frosty grass resembles a frail landscape of snow. Those who change perspective, from afar to close up, know the difference. It is not a dusty cover that has fallen overnight. Thousands of crystals of ice have found a new home upon the surfaces the strands of grass present.

It is a world of white the morning of frost has revealed. The sky above the sparkling lands is as white as the joined forces of the fragile crystals. Clouds refelct the color of what is below them. Remarkable is to realize that today’s white sky is free from clouds. The sky has too been decorated with frost by nature.

As the early morning grows older so does the darkness of it grow brighter. The hands of my clock still show one-digit hours. The day is still young. Sun has just awoken from her long winter sleep. Yawning she ligers just below the horizon. The sky is bright to the south-east though shadows yet have to be cast by the trees of the far away horizon.

In winter the light of day is in no hurry. It comes as it pleases if it comes at all. This morning it is later than it has been earlier this year. Perhaps that is why the horizon blushes as Sun lingers just below. She awaits the perfect moment to make her entrance. A true primadonna who wishes to shine the most. Perhaps this beautiful primadonna of ours, who brought us life and light, is shy this winter morning. All days before today Sun has been the brightest light the world has ever known.

As Sun climbs higher on the sky, though still hidden from view by the mere distance between her and myself, the sky blushes more and more. It is a shy morning today features, I think. Pondering why some mornings are more shy than others when they are not dissimilar at all, I realize that it is I who am mistaken. The morning is not shy. The soft colors of pink and peach that the horizon is painted with is not the proof of a shy Sun making her entrance. No. It is Sun being as vain as she has the right to be. She is the oldest of the familiar faces we know and love. Considering that, she does indeed have the right to be vain.

The old proverb: “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.” is not entirely attentive to the truth. It is not Sun who falters when the skies are blushing. She tries to make up for the weather of the approaching day by painting the sky with the soft hues of peaches. A fruit of sunshine and far away summers.

It is with tired eyes I gaze upon the horizon. The early morning of brought a reason of mine to stop trying to fall asleep. As clear and white as the sky is this morning, as clear and velvet black it was a few hours ago. The familiar constellations of the starry sky sparkled and blessed the night. It was long since the sky was as clear. For someone who loves the stars and the celestial wonders only the night can bring, one night like last night makes up for a year of cloudy skies.

Last night the air was crisp and cold. It was the first sign of the appearance of the upcoming morning. The air was as crisp as the frost that formed overnight.

Philosophical beings such as myself have many things to be amazed and breathtaken by. People wo can not stop considering and pondering, turning even the most obvious of wuestions inside out, marvel at the small size of man. To stand below a starry sky, and know that it is larger than one can ever concieve, one is reduced in size from standing two meters tall to having no measurable size at all. The philosophical part of me wonders why this reduction of size is what appeals the most.

The stars are breathtaking in beauty and infinite in numbers. Despite these truths, what keeps me longing for clear nights and starry skies is none of the before mentioned traits of the velvet black. What keeps me longing for the diamonds of the skies is the reduction of size the gazing brings. The feeling of forever more and the realization of that nothing matters in the end is what makes up for the wait for the clear skies to appear.

Like all nights following a rosy evening, last night was cold and crisp. The watery mist of my breath, whose beauty I have only recently come to fully appreciate, accompanied me in the dark. Familiar faces greeted me and I smiled. The long lost friends of last year’s winter had returned if so only for a while. It is hard to wrap one’s mind around the fact that one’s whole world is in constant motion. It is easier to imagine that it is the celestial velvet that moves over the course of time. Physicists would claim that both statements are correct. “It is all a matter of defining what relates to the other.” Is it I, the stargazer, who moves in relation to the diamond scattered sky or is it the celestial gemstones that move in relation to my world?

Orion is the ruler of the skies. His majestic figure covers a large part of the sky I can gaze upon. His raised arm and wooden club stretch all the way to the center of the sky. His shoulder a shining red, a well known star. His belt form the Three Wise Men, and below hang his mighty sword. For someone new to this world he would appear to be nothing but a collection of stars, of shining perforations on a black sheet. It is only to those who hold the gift of imagination that the constellation becomes more than the sum of its parts – not single stars but a dear friend who only comes to visit on clear winter nights.


Rainy Day Contemplations

December 7, 2007

Water vapour dominates the skies of today’s Stockholm and its surroundings. Tiny water droplets have joined forces and created thick clouds. As transparent and innocent on their own that they are, just as grey and unforgiving are they together. Thick veils of white, in layers above my head, have deprieved my world of sunlight. The only light is a grey shimmer, making the winter day remind one of the bright midnights the Northern parts of the world were blessed by just a few months ago.

Large rain drops have abandoned the skies and are falling like pebbles onto the streets. They are without mercy as they fall, they make no distinction between the brown leaves autumn forgot and the soon-to-be water soaked coats of Swedes, trying to escape the unforgiving rain.

Just like the droplets of the water vapour, which make up the clouds, have joined forces, so have the falling rain and the wind. Trapped in a maze of tall buildings the wind has no where to go. It searches for an escape with irratic movements, and with it, comes the rain.

As I were on my way home, not too long ago, the rain was already falling. The pebbles of water which fall from the sky, without the hardness of ice, make it impossible to reach one’s destination without having collected a fair share of them.

A umberella is to no use in this weather of despair. As the rain falls it is caught by the in-a-maze-trapped winds, making the water reach all parts of oneself. The umberella is loyal to the winds – a man made tool which has turned on us. Umberellas wish to be as free as the roaming winds. They are light, and perfect to trap the wind as it blows past. Though, umberellas can not fly by themselves, they will forever be dependent upon the winds. Thus, they turn on us. They turn on the people who rely upon them for protection from the raging wind and the heavy drops of rain. They know we will never release our knuckle-whitening grips of their handles. And so they invert themselves, gratefully assisted by the wind. They are both aware of that an inverted umberella is to no use.

As my umberella inverted itself over and over again, assisted by winds from all directions, I decided to let the rain shower me. My black coat was mattened and became darker in color. Just like the pavement below my feet, the water which collected upon its surface darkened it.

Rain does everything in its power to relieve the world of sunlight. The clouds hide the sun’s beams from view. They are however inventive by nature, and some beams always manage to reach below the clouds. Eternally optimistic these rays of light truly are. The rain is however deceptive. By falling and collecting upon the dark streets it makes sure to trap the few rays of light which reach the people below the skies. The puddles of rain water which are common on the streets, days like today, are nothing more than black holes in miniature, with an unsatisfiable appetite for sunshine.

The train covered some distance instead of me. By foot it would have taken hours, by train it was a matter of minutes to reach the suburbs of Stockholm. All as the rain poured from the skies. It was a matte landscape which passed by outside the train. Water soaked pictures of nature’s, aquarel in their structure, brown and grey in color. The summer flowers’ dead stems were left, as a painful reminder of that the season of death reigns for the time being. The large areas above small sounds were dimmed by the falling rain.

Just a few hours after my rainy arrival home, I found myself alone in an empty car. Whatever heat it had generated, during its short tour from my family’s home to a younger sister’s school, the unmerciful weather stole. Slowly it disappeared from around me though no proof of it was left beside the plume of watery smoke which I realeased into the air by my every breath.

The rain was still falling. It flowed down the windshield of the car, reminding me of that the only thing sepearating me from the falling rain was a thin piece of glass. I could see the water droplets falling from the skies smile gleefully at me. They knew they were in control and forever would be.

Outside the car there was a concrete jungle. The foundations of grey houses were dark from having been soaked by the rain. The streets had turned into highways for small streams of water to follow. A group of people passed by, heads covered by either umberellas or coats. Despite the weather, they were happy.

It was then I realized that I am not like them. It struck me that I am no ordinary person. Despite this stunning revelation, I was not surprised. I am no ordinary human being, and never will I be. I will never be able to be content while surrounded by a group of people, I will never allow myself to laugh, nor show any other kind of emotion, around other people. I am a private person. I am a person the most comfortable when being around no one but myself.

The anonymity of a computer screen makes me blossom, there is no situation during which I am more myself than when I am in front of the computer. I am always someone else when around people, trying hard to be just like them: social, likeable, happy and not myself. The kind of person I am is the kind of person people love to hate. That I am kind, and love to be kind, is of no importance in the context.

I am a person whose counterpart is no where to be found. My thoughts are not to be voiced in the presence of others, and for someone who loves sharing herself just as much as I do, it is destructive in the end. I am however the most happy when I am on my own. For, then I can not offend anyone beside myself. It is only I who second guess myself, and without anyone else present, there is no need.

As the rain flowed down the windshield of the empty and cold car, and as my breath turned into a watery vapour, I knew what would make me happy. It would not be to tell myself to be content, it would not be to be like the rest of the Swedes who accept everything, questioning nothing.

No longer seeing the rain which flowed across the windshield, I saw myself. I were in an empty building, holding no one but me. I was a guardian, a guardian of bottled things, things no one else wished to guard. There were bottled pigs and bottled fish, bottled hands and bottled brains. Everything inbetween heaven and earth was bottled, and among it all, there was I.

In order to be truly happy in life, I need to be by myself. I need to do only what I have chosen to do. I need not pretend that I am interested in a topic, I need not change my views to fit those of others. I need not to be part of shallow friendships, the kind of friendships which bring no one any joy. Instead, I would like to spend time with my very best friends: Me, Myself and I. Together we could guard what others wish not to. Together we would be content.