passing seasons

Photos are from the Instagram, as always.



I don’t write like I used to anymore.

I don’t write things like this anymore. Or this. Or even this. Somewhere along the lines, I lost my ability to write about nothing. It’s not so easy writing about nothing.* Reading the old words in retrospect, I cannot remember the faces or the names of people that I was writing about. And clearly, they meant something. I wonder whether it’ll be the same with him, too. I doubt it, but wouldn’t it be nice? To just forget everything? But I don’t see how.

I am back in Prague now, at least for a while. Since late spring, I have mostly been on the road. There were two trips to Berlin, five or six trips back to the coast over the summer, a weekend in Rome, half a dozen weekend trips around the republic, a quick trip to London, and a day and a half in Zagreb. I closed the summer by the sea, just as I wanted. But now I am back in this city of mine. I realized that I have been in and out of Prague my entire life, so it doesn’t feel like anything out of the ordinary. Everywhere I go I have my little rituals; mostly coffee rituals. Short fragments of time that I can count on to give me a few moments of calm, quiet, and a warm flat white between my hands. Plans for the fall and winter were to explore the south of Europe but instead of boarding tickets, I’ll be collecting books and coffee-stained study notes. With the only exception of Paris. Because Paris is always a good idea.

The fall is here. Unmistakeably. I bought the last batch of asparagus I could find to add to my weekly minestrone soup on coconut oil. Pumpkin piles have replaced strawberry stalls, and somehow I am okay with it. I am okay with the upcoming winter, the nightfall in the early afternoon, and evenings at home because it’ll be too cold for anything else. Except, perhaps, mulled wine. Recently, a sentence caught my eye: I do not have an effect on the passing seasons — but what if he could?

Would I still be worried about winter?