The Gloomy Days

I used to not mind the gloomy days. In fact, I used to embrace them.

I’ve always liked the idea of fairness that the weather demands—whatever it is, we all must suffer it.

The gloomy days

Felt like

Finally, everyone else is on my level.

Finally I can feel comfortable

Knowing that everyone that I encounter (or don’t encounter) is going through the same doom and gloom. It was nice to feel like a part of the pack.

Finally feeling like I fit in. With everyone.

Then, eventually, the gloom of the day would give way to sun and the sun worshipers would be out in droves doing their sun-worshiping things.

Girls in sun dresses and smiles chasing guys with convertibles and rich parents.

Everyone’s happiness had the volume turned up to levels too unbearable for me.

I had to retreat back to my old familiar gloom, where the comfort of the familiar went best with beers. There I could, at least, be responsible for my own misery.

But now I hate the gloom.

And being lumped in with the rest of the world.

Maybe I just stewed in my own dejection too long so that when the weather demanded more of it, I just had nothing left to give.

Now I look forward to the sunshine, and day drinking. The breeze blowing the stink of self-hatred off of me like a smile from young lady who knows my secrets.

Then I wonder if now I’m like the rest of the world, worshiping the sun, and whether it was a result of retrogression or progression.

And I retreat back to my old familiar gloom. Where the comfort of the familiar was best.