When I got out this morning I thought we had a last blast of summertime: it was sunny and quite warm, with no breeze or anything. I was even wondering why I had brought my coat (other than my affection for my summer coat, it was bought cheap and it looks juuust scruffy enough). Then later I got outside for lunch. It was still sunny, yet it did not feel like summer. It was not exactly cold, just not very warm. There was a breeze. I looked at that tree that already has red leaves, then I remembered it was August. And for some reason I felt the feeling I often have in August: a certain melancholia, as if summer was still here but yet going.
Not that I mind all that much: I welcome this sort of melancholia, it prepares the mind to autumn and it can be pleasant. I look at the books I borrowed from the library last Saturday: mainly ghost stories. My mind is already set on autumn. Yet there is still two weeks of summer left. Okay, next time I will not blog about seasonal changes or weather. Promise.