It’s so gray that a little green goes a long way. I feel like a bug drawn to whatever light is nearby.
The rain adds a bit of swish to the lethargy.
The grayness coats our moxie with disinterest and sleepiness. I watch movies that are filled with extra moxie so that I might steal a bit.
Winter dreams are extra vivid. Against a backdrop of grayness, these dreams come loaded with more weirdness than usual.
I need four pillows at night to create a mass of comfort that is quite particular in its necessary arrangement. I have to be cradled just so in my winter bed because otherwise I might feel like the injured mountain climber left behind to die.
Winter gray is unrelenting and severe. The barriers between here and there, between in and out....are exaggerated and our bodies tense and our minds begin to imagine exotic escapes or new projects filled with mindless repetition.
The ancient world of marble and echo and stillness comes to life in the secret snows of midnight. Still, the rush-hour traffic gives life to desperate thoughts of special buttons on the dashboard delivering oil or nails on the road for the tail-gaters behind us.
Winter gray looks like what is left of the hair on my head. It’s brittle, ragged, wispy, dry.
The skin on my thumb always cracks open. Often this feels like what I imagine torture to be like. I suffer in silence and all the world ignores me.
Winter lumbers on.
Winter gray.
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