A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. -Oscar Wilde

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


I hate this time of year.

I love October. I despise November. October is the warmth and goodness, harvest and fulfillment, promise. November is cold and cruel, harsh and wanting, threatening. October is a hill full of brilliant leaves, a fat full moon low on the horizon. November is skeletal remains, flinty stars with the scantest crescent. Weakest, wan sunlight if any. Sleet ticking at the windows. Relentless gray skies occasionally spitting a few flakes, begrudging the flurries that break the monotony. The abrupt change in lightness and darkness instead of the gradual change to which we were adapting.

I know that there is towering pile of things to do at the moment-- homework to do, proposals to write, bills to pay, permissions to obtain, fellowship applications, job searches, housekeeping, produce to cook, a litterbox to clean, miles to swim, objects to knit, books to read. And so on. And yet, the boredom. The complete and utter lack of desire to do anything more than stare at the wall. The apartment feels cramped and stuffy, but is unpleasantly chilly after a few moments of opened windows. I'm tired with every nerve aflame.

I hate this time of year.

No comments: