For the first time in what is becoming an aged life I miss winter. I am a bit sad to see it go and even more annoyed that no one gives a fuck. Old man winter gets so little in return for so much work. Yet, year after year one of the most hated seasons appears yet again. Giving. Pushing white powder and enduring the hate of all creation. And every year Spring kills the old white guy and gets praised for it.
But not from me. Not this time. I am packing up my artself. I will miss the creativity that only sadness and darkness can bring. Winter does that better than any of the other three (though Autumn makes a valiant attempt). Slow, long, and dark nights are over. Riding the edge of depression gone too.
I should be thrilled. Should be because that is what those around me tell me. Happy is the new black and smelling the roses is a must for all people that are healthy and sane.
I wonder if the happy people will say that when the art dies. Maybe Winter should look at that option for next year. Kill all art and great craft and writing. Then don't show up. I would support that cause just to see what the shiney happy people would do.
