A cursory glance at my last few posts on this blog clearly point to a fairly uncomfortable, cynical and depressive perspective that I am developing. I dare not even read these posts, for fear that I will find some kind of pathetic author that is either clamouring for attention or truly floundering. I am not even sure which would be worse. Regardless, I feel compelled to stand by these posts as I wrote them for a reason and know that they will not result in people judging me because they will not be read.
But I can read them and I am reading the usual feeling I get at this time of year. An unnerving creeping sensation that pervades my entire outlook on life, my social interactions with people and my opinion of myself. I felt the exact moment that it began. I was walking through a capital city on the first truly cold day of winter and felt suddenly and utterly hollow. I felt broken. While this has not been a constant sensation, it is one that surprises me with its ability to lay me low at almost any given time.
Over the week I did find some kind of possible cathartic method for dealing with this. It is surely not just the winter that has brought this mindset on, but it feels appropriate to blame the winter nonetheless. Getting some pleasure that is unique to the season may be a way forward. I enjoy planning Christmas parties, making snow 'sculptures', drinking mulled wine, eating winter food and sitting with friends in front of a warm fire. The senses can be treated in a way that is not possible at any other time of year. I need to harvest as much joy from these sensations as I can to defend myself from this crippling (if you will pardon the usual gross hyperbole) drain.
Perhaps I will survive another winter and perhaps next year I can do more than survive.
-The English Student
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