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.


The season of autumn has come. The leaves have all turned red, orange and yellow. It is in contrast to the crisp cold of the soon arriving winter. Nature seems to be on fire. The colors bring warmth to my days and my only sorrow is that that the warmth of the burning leaves is only in my mind. When cold winds blow, I wish that the warm colors could erase the chill and make me experience the summer’s gentle breeze one last time. One never appreciates the last breeze of the year – all because one does not expect it to be the last. We reason as it being so that tomorrow the breeze will once again gentlytouch our skin … or maybe the next day, if not the day after tomorrow. But I have longed for that soft touch too long now that I have come to understand that my desire is based on no facts.

The leaves of the trees are burning, but no fire lasts forever. It burns for a while before going out. A last breath similar to the last breeze of summer. What once was green has gone up in flames – glowing for a short period of time before being turned into the every day grey ash we all are bored with seeing. The chilly winds that characterize autumn greedily collect the burning leaves. Their cold claws make the leaves abandon their trees and silently fall to the ground. The wet ground makes the blazing fires go out. The dark pavement’s hard surface and the constant tap-tapping of shoes turns the redness of the fallen leaves to a grey, unidentifiable mass. It looks like wet newspaper with a tint of brown – the ultimate proof of that nothing lasts forever.

The sun has not been shining for weeks. Ocassionally it has peeked out, teasingly, from behind the clouds. Of course, that is when one is inside, sighing, wondering why life is never fair. Why is it so that life is a contstant battle for survival. We are no longer the prey of wild animals, something one would call a success. We are however the prey of our own kind, the people who are more greedy than the chilly winds of autumn. The kind of winds that turn the blazing redness of the abandoned leaves to the wet mass that cover wet pavement.

I do not like the word “fall.” There are so many things which are falling in the modern age of man, especially man itself. He seems to be at the mercy of the elements, and his misery is only accentuated by the season of fall. “Autumn” expresses some emotion, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise mundane world. The world is mundane, there is no doubt. At least not at the first glance. The members of mankind who roam the streets are gloomy, their faces pale. Their non-existant summer sunburns are since long gone. Pale and grey their faces appear to be, the grey clouds impede the sunlight from ever reaching their homes. Their smiles have been washed off their faces by the occasional rainfall. No season better symbolizes the fall of mankind better than fall itself.

As the leaves fall, so does the spirits of the common masses. Some try to smile and to be happy, but the sun is long gone. The November issue of Scientific American found its way to my mailbox, in the middle of all misery. I have never before read the whole issue in one day – that was how much time I had on my hands – rare hours I spent on a magazine. One of the most intriguing articles featured in it was the one titled: Cell Defences and the Sunshine Vitamin” by Luz E. Tavera-Mendoza and John H. White. The authors argued that deprivation of sunlight does not do man any good. The fairness of Northern European skin has enabled the people of the north to produce vitamin D through ancient times. The modern age has however brought a new style of life, one which deprives the people of their vitamins. This deficency has affected their health. They suffer from cancer and weakened immune systems. And no food can not make up for the lack of sunlight, all we can rely upon are dietary suppplements which tell stories of future dystopias. The article further states that during the summer the whole body exposure of sunlight makes up for part of the loss of vitamin D.
Me, loving to be kissed by the sun, often walk around in light clothes. I felt that maybe I had a chnace of at least being healthy in summer. I thought so reading the whole article until I came to the last page where a map was presented. It showed my home as lying in an area where the sunlight exposure is “insufficent most of the year.” In my own mind I theorized that the lack of sunlight I have been growing used to partly is to blame for my current state of mind.

I keep telling myself that one day I will not have to take the mundane colors of grey, I will not have to rest my eyes upon the pale people on the streets who have given up on life. One day, I will be kissed by the sun every day. But those days are too distant for now for me to draw strength from. Right now, I am yet another pale face for others to see, for others to feel sorry for. The majority of people never accomplished their goals, they never pursued their dreams. Eventually, they gave up on life, accepting that the mundane was their destiny. They will never be happy and they will never feel content. Perhaps the atmosphere which surrounds these people with no hope affects me more than I wish to realize. For, I am very sensitive to the feelings of others. The paleness of my fellow men’s skin coupled with the northern hemisphere’s deprivation of sunlight makes a doubtful I. Are the choices I am about to make the right ones for me?

Stockholm From Above One Day In The Middle Of Summer

Head turned to the ground, my face facing the wet pavement, I watch as my black shoes plow through the fallen fires piled up on the ground. Above me, some fires are still burning, the heat being imaginary in my head. Everything in nature seems to have reached a point of sudden death – the absence of the sun has made everything suicidal. The trees abandon their leaves, leaving them at the mercy of the greedy and chilly winds which blow over the world of grey. My tap-tapping shoes on the ground are part of the reason for why the leaves’ fallen fires are slowly turned to grey ashes. As the rain started to fall from the heavy skies and I longed for a day which still is far, far away, I asked my rational self the eternal question:

Would it not be wonderful if leaves were not fallen dreams?