Melancholy is a cool morning with thick mist hanging over the river and knowing that winter isn't far away. And winter is the time of year when I once again question my decision to settle this far south.
I ease up on my self-flagellation when I realise that it was as unplanned as everything else in the pretzel-shaped course of my life. Add to this the current 'unreal' hiatus in all our lives, a time that will mark a 'before' and 'after' for perhaps generations to come.
"Do you remember a time when we used to go to a café to read the communal paper, when we judged a man's trustworthiness by the firmness of his handshake?" we might say to one another.
We may have to unlearn lifelong embodied instincts and get used to a dystopian future in which we all wear masks, sip our espressos at a polite distance, and video-chat with family members and friends far away.
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Bunt sind schon die Wälder Gelb die Stoppelfelder Und der Herbst beginnt. Rote Blätter fallen Graue Nebel wallen – Kühler weht der Wind
Wie die volle Traube
Geige tönt und Flöte
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"Melancholy is the happiness of being sad." Not me. Victor Hugo.
