The light is pale and thin this season. Whenever I catch a ray, I settle in like a cat with a nap. There is precious little of the sun, and I want to take full advantage.
Every winter has a personality, I believe. Last year’s was hostile and biting, keeping us prisoners with icy indifference, coldly holding us hostage to its frigid whims.
This year’s cousin is an antidote, a poor relation to the last one’s power. It is soggy and mild, and oh so drab. The clothes it wears are always monochromatic. It can creep up on us without a threat, and cover us with the dull ache of sameness before we know it.
I find myself almost missing the former’s ferocious dedication. Like a demanding lover, it made me feel alive.