Hey.
In case I don't get to it in the coming days, I want to note that
![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kevissimo's birthday is Wednesday. Hope you get to do something fun that day, buddy.
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Mild winters are a cruel blessing. I don't miss the snow and the mud that comes with that, but sunny days in January, with the bare trees and brown hills...look just as bleak for my taste. The bright sun is just teasing you...the wind is unseen but still felt, grabbing you under your jacket and up the cuffs of your pantlegs. The weather is just good enough to make you want to come out of your dwelling so you can spare yourself from Cabin Fever--but just bad enough to punish your soul for doing that.
Something tells me that this kind of environment is where I come from, though. I mean that in a rather sythespiritual way, not really a genetic or geographical sense. I identify with the bleak spaces of Andrew Wyeth paintings and Joni Mitchell songs...and not with the sentiments of Thomas Kinkade paintings or bluegrass/Gospel music. I'm not sure I really know what I'm trying to say here. Am I really so addled with my underlying depression that I could believe that my destiny is to be unhappy? That I live a bleak life because that's all my kind have ever known? That my feelings of being culturally unwelcome have deeper roots than I currently understand?
FP
