For me, autumn is always crisp with introspection. Something about the harsh vulnerability of the trees as they stand naked is a catalyst for the stripping of my heart from the layers of disregard I carefully place around it in order to keep myself from collapsing under the nearly unbearable weight that the mystery of life (I know, sounds ostentatious but that’s the point) places on my naturally pensive self.
Consequently, pre-empted by autumnal soul-searching, feelings of inadequacy inevitably drift in with the swirling winds of winter and I’m left wondering what I have to offer. Tangible talent escapes me. I’m always one creative thought short of any artistic ability that I long to and might otherwise grasp.
Gahh, I’m so average it kills me.
Don’t worry, though, although I’m naturally somewhat depressive (I think that comes along with being accosted by deep thoughts on a daily basis), I’m not depressed. For me, the air of winter is just overcast with depth of thought.
…or maybe I just have seasonal affective disorder.