and it's only november
there's a certain condescension immanent to winter. moisture and heat are wrung from the air without consulting any of us. the sun, no less bright than in summer, suddenly refuses us its warmth, and what fill the crevices of our jumpers, coats, gloves, boots, scarves and the insides of our raw red ears is unadulterated cold. the trees dispense of their leaves almost carelessly, ignoring the whispered sorrows of these deadened castaways as they drift to the ground. dessicated with separation. and to the whims and fancies of these condescensions, these seasons, we scurry indoors with biting winds snapping at our heels, to seek solace from this baleful seasonal contempt. we huddle up to heaters, pull things over ourselves to keep warm - jumpers, blankets, houses, a pair of arms - as though to enact a womblike comfort, or plumb the instinct to hibernate.
but yesterday i looked out of my window to a ponderous fog rolling through town - mocking distances - and the way the night had edged everything in hard white frost, and the stern, towering skies speaking grey volumes of cold and nothing of the humans beneath it; and i thought, or rather, i realized: the condescension is ours.
nonetheless, i am already looking forward to warmer months. jesus. remind me never to visit russia in winter.