Grayness in December

December 4th, 2022

Now, it is clearly the worst time of the year. The sky is gray, the air is gray, buildings are gray, the ground is gray, trees are gray, people are gray, thoughts are gray (and frequently becoming dark), hope is hard-pressed in the overwhelming grayness, and the soul is weighted down in all this hoary overcast gloominess. There is no color to be found anywhere outside what is seen in the headlights and streetlights.

I haven't seen the sunshine since I don't know when, but two nights ago, I noticed the moon in the sky! That meant the clouds were dispersing, so I put on my jacket, wooly hat, and gloves and went out. I stood in my garden in the freezing cold just to bask for a few minutes in the second-hand, handout reflection of the sun. But as all reflections go — it was frigid and artificial and fake. And gone soon.

My hope hinges on the fact of the upcoming winter solstice — in only (or as many as) seventeen days. That is a date marked in my internal calendar since forever. I know that the length of the daylight will be almost unnoticeable at first, but for me — that is enough. I know that after each night the day will be longer by a minute or so, and that will make each night more bearable and each day a more opulent gift.

In January and February, snow and bitter cold and whiteouts are expected. I perversely am looking forward to it. There is an amazing pleasure for me to be shut in by the snow and winter. Of course, after getting prepared for it. I also find a deep pleasure in going out in the heavy snow storm, just to walk around, and see how the city looks and copes with it, knowing well that my warm and cozy home is waiting for me.

It will be different with the snow, once it covers the ground (usually after New Year’s) the whole perception of seeing colors changes for me. White is a color and a perfect background for any slightest different hues that will dare to stand out. And the sun makes a return then as well. And the brightness, which will appear more often and for longer periods, will bring back hope for the continuity of seasons.

Gray is not a color, it is a distinct lack of any pigments of any distinction. Gray is a wash running down the canvas of the sky, as painted by a bored and inexperienced and indifferent and possibly crazy creator. Gray is a parasite, latching onto any noticeable spark of color anywhere and sucking all the life and happiness and fun from it. I feel like I am becoming gray as well, I see it in my face in the mirror. But all reflections are fake and evil, so I try not to pay any attention to them. But my thoughts are becoming washed over in the grayness that surrounds me as well and that I need to be wary of.

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footsteps of the Furies

“for they knew what sort of noise it was; they recognize, by now, the footsteps of the Furies”. Enjoying life on the road to recovery. Observing and writing.