I'm always following the light. Where ever I go, the light is the first thing I usually remember. The cities, the countries, the buildings and the houses. People as well. If I don't, there's not much to remember anyway. For example Paris, my adolescent dream town where everything should and would have been perfect, remains in my memory as a steel gray cloudy and rainy town. I remember the wet streets. The glistering cement that reflected the streetlights as we paced down the street in a hurry not to get wet. Of course, this memory is tainted by the ghastly weather, but nevertheless this memory remains in my head. Then Spain, despite of the winter and the rainy fall that I lived there, lingers in my mind as a calm late summer evening, air thick with the warmth of the day, filled with scents of the city and the people in it. The feeling is like waking up from a wonderful late afternoon nap. Body heavy from the dream, limbs stretched out and you don't want to move a muscle to brake the relaxness in your body. You just watch in the direction of your eyes and let your body wake up without moving.
In here where I live now, in Helsinki, the light always seem to have a layer of white in it, eating out all the colors, making them dull in a way. It's too sharp, like a razor cutting out everything and nothing. Maybe it's the direction from where it shines, don't know really. But every autumn I seem to long for that light and my mind wanders in Spain again.
(picture from the rooftop where I lived)