Summer nostalgia in the winter

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​Ah, the winter sea. It is not merely a landscape, you know? It is a monumental, silvery mirror that reflects, with a ruthless, crystalline fidelity, the image of our most stinging, unrepeatable summer nostalgia.
​I stand here, on this deserted, icy beach, with the wind lashing my face in short, cutting gusts. The air is saturated with a briny, pungent scent, so different from that intense, sweet effluvium of sunscreen and saltiness we remember. The sky is a uniform, metallic gray, a monochrome, solemn canvas against which the horizon line is outlined, confused, indistinct.

​I look at the waves. They no longer have that joyful, carefree motion of summer, that rhythmic, almost playful lapping of the shore. Now they crash with a dark, resounding roar, they are masses of a deep, almost inky blue, seeming to drag with them not just the sand, but also the blurred remnants of days gone by. Each undertow, powerful and slow, is a grave, mournful sigh of the world.

​And there, right there, among the cold and wrathful foam, I see everything. I see your smile, luminous and fleeting, dancing under a blinding, brazen sun. I still feel on my skin the enveloping, intoxicating warmth of the endless days, the sweetish, irresistible taste of a kiss stolen at dusk, when the sky was tinged with purplish, incredible glows. I remember the nights, those velvety, complicit nights, full of silvery, light laughter and promises whispered, fragile as glass.

​The winter sea is a magnificent, cruel custodian. It does not give you the illusion of immediate joy, but it offers you the luxury of memory. It forces you to confront the exquisite, bittersweet beauty of what has been and what, by its very tragic, perfect nature, will not return in that form. And as the imposing wave retreats, leaving behind pale and silent shells, I do not feel sadness. I feel a deep, visceral gratitude for the fact that that summer glow, that wonderful, dazzling warmth, is so indelibly, eternally etched into the dark, melancholic heart of this season.
​It is the perfect, poignant melancholy of a love that has not faded, but has simply retreated, awaiting its next overwhelming, sweeping explosion, and once again, its absolutely unique arrival.

My property photos shooted by phonecam
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