I woke up to overcast skies this morning. The sun is still hiding from me. I think the sun came out yesterday, but I slept for most of the day. I feel guilty when I waste weekend days by getting up at noon and then taking an extended nap at 2:00. I’m only cheating myself when I do that.
This is just the beginning of the greyness. This is the start of fall. This is when the sun doesn’t shine as much as I need it to, and cooler days begin to outnumber warmer ones.
I don’t like this time of year, and I make it worse on myself by actively not liking it. Why can’t I just celebrate the changes that autumn brings like so many poets and artists are wont to do.
Summer is gone, and all I want to do is wait and wait for spring. I want to skip the rain-soaked, rotting leaves. I want to be jacketless, short-sleeved, barefoot. I would be happy with 100 degrees, and blinding sun, and melting asphalt streets.
But this is what I have, and this is where I am. I’m in Indiana, not Southern California. I should be somewhere else.
Maybe life would look better if I didn’t waste my days. Or, what if I let go of the notion that a day can be wasted?
There’s probably some profound metaphor here that I’m just not seeing. Something about change, and light, and sleeping the day away like the trees. Yes, the trees are sleeping.
The problem is that I’m not a tree.