Today is one of those days when it doesn’t really get light outside. If at least we had snow, but no, it’s just raining. At least it’s only two more days to go until the winter holidays. In contrast to the weather I found some photos I took in the summer yesterday, of the rose gardens up at the castle.
It was such a hot day that I had to wear shoes around mid-day even though I went barefoot in the morning, because the cobblestones were burning my feet. The scent of the roses and the lavender hung in the air, heavily, and there was a lazy stillness about the place, nobody there but me.
Days like that one are somehow over-saturated in colour, like old photographs, like an Instagramm filter. They happen when the year is hottest, dry days without any clouds and a sky so blue that it almost hurts the eye.
I decided not to edit the pictures in any way, what you see are the colours of that afternoon in the burning sun just like the camera caught them.
Now as I look out of the library window at uni the day seems little more than a memory, and the photos are some sort of promise of a returning Summer, even though I’m desperately wishing for a decent Winter right now.