Seasons come as they go — and all that comes with them leaves gracefully, turning evenings into memories, and memories into stories.
Autumn brought in a wisp of life that had been missing for a while. And as the year comes to its end, so does the
illusion of knowing anything at all.
—
Today is the shortest day of the year. December twenty-first. Normally, I’d be blue. They call it seasonal affective…something. I think they’re right.
The heaviness of grey clouds resting over Munich suffocates me. The humidity seeps into bones, leaving me aching. Even the sparkle of Christmas lights couldn’t lift my spirits. But this time, none of this sticks. Maybe I’ve finally learned to stop clinging to the cold.
A friend tells me the past doesn’t exist, the future is yet to come, and all that is true… is the now. “Forget about outcomes,” he says. “You can’t control life and you shouldn’t want to.”
Somewhere along the way, fleeting thoughts learned to remain just that. Momentary. Unimportant. For once, I let everything wash over me — like a tide breaking on shore, gently dragging all that isn’t aligned back into the deep.
—
My image wavers in my cup — a kitsch piece of glass in primary colors resting on my glove, halfway empty. Pink lights fall across it, turning my pale coat and skin into an ecstatic magenta.
I blow on my eggnog and take my first sip. The tip of my tongue turns sour immediately, undoing whatever vanilla and burnt sugar lingered from the cinnamon roll I devoured less than an hour ago.
⸻
In the shuffle, I get pushed by a Santa Claus wannabe and spill half my hot eggnog onto my boots — old boots. Great boots. Worn-in leather, lace-ups, a decade of loyalty.
They carried me through Cypress Hill concerts, Superbloom, and road trips along sun-drenched coastlines.
I’m at my best when I stay in motion. Walking. Swaying my feet off the edge of my seat.
Bruising some innocent bystander’s knee, apologizing sincerely — then doing it again. Just me and my heavy boots, now taken too soon.
Rest in power. You deserved better.
—
And yet, all around me — celebration. The crowd is loud and in love. Live music, movement, a bit of havoc. Snuggling everywhere. I’m unsure whether it’s the alcohol, the atmosphere, or the wine-scented breeze grazing my face, making me blush. Either way, I watch.
Lovers learning to balance on the tightrope of desire. Awkward first kisses that miss their mark. Children hopping onto the carousel and riding away in circles, technically, but to them it’s an adventure.
It’s been a while but I remember being a kid. The smallest acts of bravery became quests and the topic of discussion for a couple weeks. When things went as planned, you felt like a titan. Invincible. And undeniably badass.
If you also had wheelies on, the entire neighborhood was done for. Dust. Finished.
⸻
A beaming little blond girl catches my attention. She calls for her parents and immediately hits her head on the low-rise ceiling — then again, on the pole, trying to climb off by herself. Her Coke-bottle glasses, oddly heroic, kept her from losing an eye.
Her father rocks her like a newborn. Her cheeks bloom into ladybug patterns — white and soft red. Her pupils, though bloodshot, appear kind. Somewhat dorky and adorable.
This queer Christmas market becomes a bubble — loud, warm, briefly sealed. Acceptance, at least for what can be named, lit up, worn on the outside. Enough to irritate half the nation.
The unknown still makes people tremble. Love most of all, when it refuses expectation.
And I wonder what that little girl will remember about this market, this moment, herself.
—
I catch myself in a mirror and barely recognize the proportions — my forehead widened, my nose twice as long. My entire face is stretched by glass and alcohol fumes.
Not long ago, reflections only lived on water, on curved surfaces, gone the moment you moved. Now they follow you. Screens, lenses, angles you didn’t ask for.
And beneath it all, an ache for glamour. To be transformed into something you are not.
Hopefully there are still people dreaming in technicolored film — vividly.
—
The day closes in abruptly.
It’s hardly six thirty, yet the sky dims with every step.
The path from the train tracks to my home is quiet, even with Hozier’s voice consuming me. Not a single soul crosses my way — no car in the distance, not even a wandering cat.
The main street runs straight for about a kilometer. I cross at a green pedestrian light, then enter a split lane that branches further — like a tree, if seen from above.
Fairy lights, wooden snowmen, small decorations offer relief. Rainbow lights. Cool white. Dark green.
Each garden reveals something — some careless, some meticulous, some almost aggressive, like that bright neon beam aimed squarely at a neighbor’s living room.
—
The dusty sky is swallowed by indigo. Street lamps cast a gentle yellow onto the pavement, fragmenting the darkness. What a way to be guided through fog.
As I walk, I’m kissed by the mist — sudden, soft, like a hand finding yours without warning. A brush of warmth on frozen skin. December, briefly, offering presence.
And I, briefly, surrender.
Tonight, at seven-thirty.
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