Am I growing set in my ways? Or is it just that I really hate this time of year, and the night feels like a smothering weight crushing me into the ground?

I’m actually counting the days until the winter solstice, when the daylight finally stops dying. It has never really been the cold that gets me (although don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan of the cold), it has always been the darkness and the gloom.

Still, the falling rain is comforting in a paradoxical way. Maybe it’s the familiarity. My memories of the patter of raindrops stretch back into my childhood, some few, scattered, random moments that remind me of home, of belonging. They remind me of times when I actually felt loved, and protected.

The smell of the earth after a few days of rain always makes me at ease. It’s like a fresh start, a beginning. The beginning of a new story, without regret, without sorrow.

So I wait patiently for the sun to come back. I know that even the longest winter eventually gives way to spring, and then to the glory of summer, but I guess the little kid in me is still afraid that the sun will never come back, leaving me to the mercy of the monsters lurking in the dark.