Grey skies, masked by orange leaves. 53 degrees of melancholy and unease as a front approaches from the west.

That was a post from earlier today. It was just as true at 4 A.M. when I woke as it is at 10 P.M. as I know it’s too early to sleep. The front is still approaching, but slowing: light rain predicted for midnight is now set for one, but the barometer continues to slowly climb.

Somedays, the weather mirrors our souls. Sure, that’s an over-simplification, but sometimes it’s exactingly correct. I looked for a place to hang this feeling and there it was: everywhere. A bit cool, a bit damp ~ the air still, the sky grey, and it slowly grew dark as we stalked winter and winter turned to catch our gaze. What part of it all was outside and what part was inside? The question misses the point. There was no difference. There is no separation.

The weather was… is? me.

Just something in the air, I suppose, but for the life of me I don’t know what it is.

Strange.