Winter Melancholy

Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home.

I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters

so I can pretend that the cold doesn’t exist.

The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation.

All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue, and malise of mood.

The weariness of winter settles on me like freeze-burnt frost on dead grass

until it is melted by the return of the sun.

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