Awaiting the spring

A serene white sea outside the window welcomes me back to life after a night full of dreams on which my sexual appetite never seemed to be fulfilled. I usually dream about other things – most of them of the nasty kind: assassins who try to kill me; a sin force chasing me through the jungle; one of my bosses forcing me to lick the chief editor’s shoes clean…

Sexually charged dreams are a feature of the arriving spring. That’s why I was a bit disillusioned this morning when I saw the veil of snow covering Sweden. I was expecting a greener view, more joyful black birds on the roofs and to fill my lungs with the fragrances of the fruitful dark soil surrounding the city where I live.

But the weather is just as crazy and unpredictable as we humans are. And the spring is not longer loaded with promises of a better, warmer destiny. Spring is an untrustworthy season, as Robert Fisk recently pointed out in The Independent. The good thing is that my biological clock hasn’t noticed it and I still have my dreams.