I feel like I am blogging about the weather all the time, or too often anyway these days, and this is getting ridiculously mundane, but sometimes I find my inspiration on the mundane. More than a month ago I said I wanted to blog about literature. Unfortunately I have little energy for it just now.And the weather is pretty much on everybody's mind at the moment.
But yes, every day, we have heavy showers, the wind is often strong and it looks grey and miserable. A colleague told me yesterday, on my way home (we share the same commute, minus one train station for him): "I have never seen an April month that looked so much like April". This was so accurate a statement and so funny that I am adding it as a great unknown line. This morning, I walked to the train station in the rain, I was soaking wet. In the afternoon, there was a thunderstorm. But the storm is not hot like the ones we have during summertime: they are cold. Spring is a temperamental, nasty season, April is an even more temperamental, nasty month. It feels like walking through, every day, a relentless Apocalypse. The storms are beautiful though. At least there is beauty in this furious weather.
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There is beauty in nature even at her most furious. That said I prefer to be at a distance observing some of its furiousness. And I am thankful for modern conviences. Imagine a couple of hundred years ago. How much more treacherous the seasons must have been?
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