"It was November...

...the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines."

Look how icy those blues are. So blue, so blue.

I hate November. In theory, I love it. Or, I suppose, I love my romanticized mental image of it. Crimson sunsets and sad sea hymns? Deeply, painfully lovely. The experience? Just painful.

"The elemental vastness of the windblown world."

"Elemental vastness."

Around here, November is a month of transition. The brisk, rosy days of October and Indian summer don't fade - they drain. The skies are emptied of their life and left drab and dull, and even the sun cools to a stark, hard white, piercing through the listless clouds. The nights are darker than ever, except for the glinting stars. Sometimes the stars help, crowding the "spiritual firmament" with a friendly glow. But sometimes they hurt. Sometimes they seem so far away, and the world seems bigger and emptier than ever. Deep breaths of night air just cut like knives through your lungs. Everything reassuring is gone. And the windows of the apartments, the dorms, the houses - their warm yellow lights warn away trespassers. It gets harder and harder to fill the space between.

All I can remember of last winter is the emptiness of the spaces between, and how badly I want to close the gaps.

I'm getting restless again and I don't know what to do.

----------------
Now playing: Simon & Garfunkel - Bookends