(365 ± 30) days ago

It was (365 ± 30) days ago that I had a nightly routine (a ritual, almost), which now seems to unfortunately have been lost to me. I would clutch close to me either a glass of creamy Irish Bailey's or red wine (or a hot mug of chamomile tea other nights when I was feeling decidedly less "European"), don my warm and fluffy house slippers to keep my toes snug, wrap my pyjamas tight and close to me, and venture to the large, blue oak door with the brass door handle that stood at the end of the entrance hall; grasping the knob with my free hand, I would, with a great effort, pry open the magical portal. (I'm sounding a tad akin to a modern and slightly less long-winded Proust now - just goes to show what Swann's Way is doing to me…) 

I would thereby stand at the convergence of that fierce and icy cold without and that toasty, homely warmth within, exposed savagely to a strange mélange of sensations of tingling and shuddering, and that sense of pleasurable warmth that courses through one's body and veins, brought about by the exquisiteness of a touch of alcohol - this can only be described as purest Gemütlichkeit. An expanse of white snow would unveil itself before me as in a fairy tale, a noble bed of immaculate white receiving the gentle caresses of newly-fallen flakes, a blanket of purity to be ruthlessly desecrated the next morning by vicious and happy children - but that would at least spell an end to the asphyxiated misery of whatever blades of withering grass remained unconsciously existing beneath. 

It's been a year, plus-minus, since I last had the chance of being embraced by nature almost in the comfort of my own home. Perhaps I don't do this much anymore since it's just too warm this winter (5˚ at night - that's indeed warm - eat your hearts out, people stuck back in truly hot and humid Singapore) and not a freak -15˚ as it was last year. Or maybe it's just that I've gotten lazy and my bed just seems a little more welcoming than the cold beyond. Or maybe it's just that conspicuous dearth of snow this time around, the lack of that something that makes this gloomy time of year truly etwas Besonderes. 

(i can't) think.

"In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
I realized, through it all, that…
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back." 

- Albert Camus 

Came across this poignant quote yesterday while browsing, of all things, Instagram (#poignantquote). Had almost no control over my memory and musings as they transposed themselves halfway across the globe to recall my darling sister, as Berlin gives in helplessly to yet another harsh German winter much too soon. Neither is Singapore any better off at the moment - the heavens insolently empty their overflowing bladders, relieving themselves unceremoniously day after day on us miserable humans, no end to it in sight. Tears of angels, wrath of nature, an eternity of grey gloom. 

Well back to the point - the quote ought to inspire plenty more than this, but humans are indeed, by nature, superficial, no? What a pity that thinking hard can be so exhausting. In any case, its beauty struck me hard (on the head I believe, for it placed me under its comatose spell and before I knew it my legs had carried my weary body to the bookstore and back and on my desk lay Camus' The Sea Close By and The Stranger. And with it, an emptier pocket.) 

Was struck a second time upon essaying to read the first page of The Sea. "I grew up in the sea and poverty was sumptuous, then I lost the sea and found all luxuries grey and poverty unbearable." "Oh how beautiful," my mind concluded. Too tired to even attempt to comprehend. Irreverent me. 

Came to a conclusion for the second time in one day: today is certainly not a good day to begin on Camus. There will always be a tomorrow for that. Back to Proust before bedtime - back to warm and mellow images, to music-words, to cosmetic poetic beauty, deep-masked memory - good thinking can wait. 

More on Camus some other day. And so, off to dreamland.