Gentle January

As alarming and irreversible as the phenomenon of global warming may be, undoubtedly there is something subversive about the irregular temperature patterns manifesting these days. Indescribably, an almost naughty and mischievous notion, that the Sun can have such unparalleled freedom to roam this part of the globe this time of the year. The forbidden fruit has indeed been touched. So as concerned and weary as we all are of the changes that present nothing positive for our future, we still stand by the freakish weather and hail it as more pleasant than bitter frost or flaky droplets of water. And what can winter bring that we have not already seen anyway?

This current state of weather has become yet another thing that I don’t understand in this life. Like how I find it hard to understand Bulgakov. Would I ever make a deal with Satan? If I loved another or if I loved the creation enough, would that drive me to such extents as selling my soul? I also find it hard to decipher Milton. What good is freedom of choice when there’s really no choice at all? Still, I shred the words of these and many other great masters, literary giants, in the hope that some of their knowledge and wisdom and sensitivity about the world will clench onto my susceptible brain. If not - this of course remains to be seen luckily so I don’t have to confront the harsh reality just yet – then I’ve spent much time reading pages which have seldom made sense to me. Is it enough to feel what the author is writing about? To glide over the actual words and skip to the part where all that remains is certainty about the tone, the mood, the spirit?

However cruel or abstract life is, it’s worth talking about the points which unsettle us all. Or about the parts that make universal sense. Or things that never make sense to anyone else but you. But me. The sun and the moon, the wind and the clouds come to play their lovely hand, leaving us all gasping with fright, foreseeing the disasters that our children will have to bear. Disasters which might wipe every living thing off this planet. Then Bulgakov won’t matter and the archaic verse of Milton won’t matter. I won’t matter and my confession of not understanding these literary classics won’t matter. But until then, I feel I have a moral and intellectual obligation to at least attempt to come to terms with the despairing human character that unveils itself on pages of books, on streets, in front of my very eyes.

This month is no different to any other. An unexpected song starts playing and it whisks me back to countries and to secretly kept years. To feelings and friends who I never had but still somehow forgot. This winter so far may have been gentle but its poison is odourless and colourless. The still river may reflect the towering bridge above it on a clear sunny morning, but in reprise the day will come and it will show no mercy. I see no real reason or cause to plan.

The present is all we have, this mild and unusual winter month. Onto bigger chunks of literature that will lead me into more confusion, sinking every ambition I may ever have to deeper ground. Seeing a better version of ourselves in the eyes of the one who says real love is always enough. Seeing nothing but a blur when it comes to the road ahead. Hoping that the hazy, opal reflection will be taken far, far away. Then comes the end, swiftly and silently like always, like always.