Tokyo Winter

Winter in Germany is all black. Black coats, black scarves, black shoes, the whole visual landscape just flattens. It’s practical, or it feels that way. You dress for the season and disappear into it.

Tokyo in December looks nothing like that. I was walking around Harajuku and just watched people get dressed for cold weather the way normal people dress—with colors, with patterns, the idea that you might still look like yourself. A kid with platform boots and bright socks under a long coat. Someone in a puffy jacket with silk trousers. Another person in a parka with fishnet stockings. It was casual, not staged. Just what felt right to them.

I realized I’d never questioned why I didn’t do that. Black felt inevitable, like cold weather demanded surrender. But it’s not, is it? It’s a choice that became so normal it feels like necessity.

The streets in Harajuku weren’t staging a rebellion or making some point about fashion. People were just deciding, every day, not to accept that getting cold meant getting boring. Not as a conscious act. Just a normal choice. What felt right.

I came back and couldn’t look at my winter wardrobe the same way. All that black suddenly looked less like practicality and more like a habit I’d stopped questioning.