The clock turned back an hour early on Sunday morning as I happened to be checking my phone: I was tottering home in the East Village, miserable in my Halloween heels, wishing desperately for nothing other than my soft bed and the warm glow of my laptop. Great, I thought. An extra 60 minutes to berate myself for choosing silver pumps over Doc Martens, another 60 minutes to be too drunk and aimlessly hungry, another 60 minutes to wish for the steady dopamine drip of summer.
As the winter wears on, and no matter how firmly I attempt to convince myself otherwise, the steady decrease in sunlight is going to be really hard. On the first truly overcast day of September, I lingered in bed well past noon, crying. Looking forward to Christmas helps not at all; the tinsel and decorations and beat-to-death ditties just remind me that I feel slightly too old to enjoy getting gifts. The only pleasure that feels pure anymore comes from making things myself.
Unfortunately, I can’t make the weather change, so I’ll have to console myself with hot cocoa and hot baths and fragrant candles and fat books as soppy flakes hurl past my window. Just remember: linear time is a capitalist construct, and putting the vast void of the universe in context, we’re all going to die in about a minute.
Image via Wikimedia Commons.
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