She gazes out the window at the thick grey skies. These dark, short, cold days weigh upon her. She, who once danced through the summer nights with her dearest friends in mind and spirit. The DJ and bar owners had pushed them out the door with a wink and a nod. Sweating and breathless, they’d wandered the early morning streets before dawn, before lights went on in the bedrooms of the homes they passed. All the while, they hummed together the last song of the night.
For weeks now, the dark winter evenings, impenetrable to any inner light, have thrown a thick blanket of slumber and dullness over her. She feels no lightness of being. It is as if all her summer zest has flown south, somewhere along the coast of Africa.
When she meets her friends, she wonders how she ever thought their company companionable. Now she can barely tolerate their chatter, irritated by their forced gaiety. Their evening plans scrape like sandpaper against the thin surface of her civility. Were they always so superficially jovial? Was she?
Winter darkness feels like a rewiring of her brain. Somber, serious, melancholic, these grey days let other thoughts rise to the surface. Somehow, this feels more real than the wild and reckless summer sprite she once flew beside. The question is: if she digs deeper into this current state, will she discover a treasure of profound recognition, or fall into a dark abyss?
A horn blaring on the street below shakes her from her reverie. She touches her cup of tea. It’s cold. Time to cook dinner.
