Let Roar These Fears, To The Whore Of My Tears

Following some temperate weather, the chill has returned. Gone are the previous weeks’ room-shaking thunderstorms and breezy, balmy afternoons. Once again we’re huddled within, heaters set on high, even the cats discouraged from venturing out into the frozen gloom. All continues as before, much in stasis: career decisions, future plans, health goals…each is suspended in a state of paralysis. This weather makes all planning and action into a grudging effort at best and a laughable folly at worst. There’s nothing to do but be cold, sometimes.

The countryside is rendered in sharp contrast now, naked black tree branches etched cleanly against star-flung skies, dead plants in the garden billowing in the harsher winds. The cotton fields are vast blank canvases of brown, the last few bits of unharvested crop clinging tightly to the thin limbs, immovable. Leaden grey skies drape like shrouds over the entire landscape.

It’s in my nature to long for hot, muggy days filled with fireflies and barbecue during the cold months, and exactly this sort of enchanted winter murk in the hottest months. What I really yearn for is a permanent autumn that doesn’t exist. The autumn we do enjoy in Western TN is fleeting, vanished in a matter of weeks. Until then, the rain will bear its lonely weight on my tired soul. There’s not much else to say, I’m afraid. When there is, I’ll record it here, as always.

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