I can feel the pull of the yawning vortex growing ever stronger as each day passes. Synaptic conversations cease to dance to upbeat tunes, preferring, instead, to march solemnly in echoing silence. Where once I’d wrap myself in glorious recollections, now I push them away, they’re just too bright for this grey, emotional wasteland. The rooms of my mind are, one by one, having dust sheets flung over furniture, curtains are being drawn, light blocked from entering, doors bolted shut in preparation for winter.
Tis a choice I don’t make for myself.

I truly hate this time of year. The long, dark nights do me no favours, and I withdraw from everything I usually hold close. Daily functions reduced to only those which are necessary to sustain life.

Even the blog will suffer. Plans to dress it in colours of amusing anecdotes and fond memories have given way to a desire to daub the walls with shades of anger and melancholy instead. I no longer trust that the recollections are true, painting them from my mind with crude strokes of unwieldy brush.

Ofcourse, all this is tinted with a stinging, bitter irony surrounding the fact that for once, I have something good to hold onto, and all of this…..this melancholy….could threaten to derail that one good thing. I cling to this irony as I cling to my sanity….tis a white knuckle ride I dearly wish I could get off.