Maybe it’s the weather, that “seasonal affective disorder” thing, but I am not looking forward to tomorrow, or any immediately imminent tomorrow on the horizon.
I wish to take the route of the wild beast and hibernate through this vicarious Siberian interlude.
I know the worst of the bitter cold is almost over, brief, unpleasant, and brutally invasive in it’s transition, but somehow, no consolation to be found in brevity.
Going to seek respite in a nap, beginning immediately, hopefully to emerge enlightened, or functioning just enough, to last through to the next existential crisis of the day.
Self created and nourished delusions, resulting from disloyal perceptions, my transitory reality deceives, consistently…