02 August 2017
There is a river flowing under the iron bridge, its colour hard to discern in the sunlight. It looks like a mossy green that is nevertheless quite sharp, with brownish tones. The non-stop wind is now calm, and the tiny waves forming make the river’s surface slightly shiver.
All day long, the river’s surface is never still or waveless, and therefore it is never the clean mirror rivers and lakes and puddles can sometimes be: it is always a mix of the colours and shapes above it, looking down at it. Some of these shapes and colours are conscious, and they look down at themselves in awe, unable to discern what is their reflection and what might be another’s.
One could look at the waves and the mishmash of images all day long. Although it never changes much, it is also never the same: an impressionist painting forever changing, a part of the days — a part of the weather, of history: of the city’s life and mystery.