Lately I’ve been able to feel seasonal depression creeping in slowly as the winter shadows grow outside. The fall came quickly; it felt like summer collapsed and now the in-between time is here. The trees are bare and the light is soft yellow and there’s shadows all day long, but there’s not yet snow.
It’s like I can see the massive expanse that is another winter stretched out in front of me, and while I tend to fixate on the aesthetics of winter I like— the way the sun rises red, the way the snow-covered woods look inviting, the way my breath curls— I am acutely aware of the coming claustrophobic dark.
I fixate on aesthetics, but images are paper thin. The last of the leaves fall hard on the ground. It’s cold in the morning, but I won’t put on a coat yet. The sun sets two minutes earlier every day, and rises two minutes later the next morning. Soon, I will have days where I work through all of the light hours. I’ll come home and fling on all the lights, turn on the TV, light a candle like all that racket will push the winter shadows a little farther away.
Still, the dark creeps in close.
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