December.
I've not been eating much. When I do I force myself, because it seems that I ought. I do get hungry, I suppose, but nothing is quite what I want. I do want to drink, however. Coffee, or black or detoxifying or calming tea, my father's brand of whiskey, good Scotch, strangely floral gin and tonics. Fuelling the machine is tedious. I want to push buttons. I want to force readily available liquid chemicals into my brain to create a desired effect. I want to wake up, or work harder, or feel the gods breathing on the back of my neck, or flirt more easily with a pretty girl. The coffee and tea are good for keeping warm, too.
I rail against the darkness, the coming cold. I'm furious with the sun for failing us. I want to know what ritual we can enact that will rouse the dying infant solar god. I suspect that the Egyptians had the right one; for all their worry about it, it never seemed to get very cold there at all. I want to shake the weakly burning bairn, demand that it toughen up and try harder. The depression born of the dark has been following me, reaching and coiling in tendrils and tentacles. It hasn't quite caught me yet. I can still move and breathe. But a few months spent only either working or being alone in this house are likely the worst thing for me. Still the brat sun dies. Selfish beast. So I swallow herbs that have been crushed into pills, and I knit a simple but long scarf, and I arrange my house for the long hibernation.
I rail against the darkness, the coming cold. I'm furious with the sun for failing us. I want to know what ritual we can enact that will rouse the dying infant solar god. I suspect that the Egyptians had the right one; for all their worry about it, it never seemed to get very cold there at all. I want to shake the weakly burning bairn, demand that it toughen up and try harder. The depression born of the dark has been following me, reaching and coiling in tendrils and tentacles. It hasn't quite caught me yet. I can still move and breathe. But a few months spent only either working or being alone in this house are likely the worst thing for me. Still the brat sun dies. Selfish beast. So I swallow herbs that have been crushed into pills, and I knit a simple but long scarf, and I arrange my house for the long hibernation.