Grey and dismal mornings

I think today it is grey and dismal all across the world, although looking at a weather map of the United States I notice that only the Northeast is under the clouds - regardless, the darkness of the sky is accentuated by the streams of runoff from all the black umbrellas dancing down the walk. New York is a cold, rainy soup bowl.

When I awoke this morning I was convinced the clock was lying. Besides the stark and glowing red numerals staring at me and the news in French that I listen to every morning in a half-dreaming daze my room certainly didn't have the quality of light that one expects when you sleep without window dressings.

I'm continually reminded of how much our moods are affected by the sky. Today I am listless. No energy to work, no energy to node, no energy to be excited and thrilled. Today I will do what is required of me and nothing more. I don't have any more to offer.

It's not the rain, or the darkness, or the cold. All those things apart from one another and even together generate different effects in me - cold is exhilarating, especially when it's crisp and crystal clear - you feel as if you can see for miles and the clarity of vision reaches into your very soul. Darkness has its own incentives for I'm fond of intrigues and the privacy that the lack of light affords, and the rain always encourages me to take off my shoes and run...

...not that one would/could do that in New York City. But we can dream of elsewhere.

Here comes the rain again,
Here comes my ecstasy.
(Strumming on my head like a memory,
Tearing me apart like a new emotion)
Here comes my lunacy.

It's days like today that twist my gut (or wherever these thoughts come from) and send me on a sickening ride through this life sucks.

I find it hard to sit, hard to fake an assiduousness I don't feel, hard to keep up the pretense of happiness.

This sky gives me license to mope.

I take long walks, get soaked through. There's nothing like being miserable, cold, and streaming rain. Exhilirating is the word, but nowhere near strong enough. It's a rush, a thrill, a sort of masochistic victory.

Lonely thoughts float in my hollow consciousness, not connecting, not concluding. Existing. I turn my face up to the unforgiving sky, I'm dressed in all black as usual, blending into the landscape of wet stone, slick cabs, umbrellas.

I am almost invisible, try desparately to be so. I think of disappearing, hopping on a train to anywhere. Chalk me up as another statistic.

Here comes the rain again.