I don't like fall and winter.
It is the time of death and decay. I am allergic to wool and down, so even biologically I'm not meant to endure it. I always have flares of my diseases in the winter, and either from that pain affecting my nervous system or from the lack of the big fire ball in the sky that gives us life, my depression on these cold days likes to stick to everything.
I'm sad right now. I don't know if it's one thing specifically, or more a general wash of the above, like watercolors stacking over and over again until the color is no longer smooth and pastel and bleeds through the page, destroying your work. Things are lackluster and futile feeling.
For the first time in awhile I'm thinking about moving again. This is the first year I haven't moved in, well, eight years.
I miss art. I want to be on a set every day, not just on the rare occasions that something falls into my lap and I have the energy.
But LA didn't work for me.
I've always Paris is my next city, but then again if I were to finally go and be just as demotivated there, perhaps I'd be losing too much of the dream that keeps me going.
It's just a hard time. If I could hibernate and sleep until spring I would.
I hope this is temporary. Seasonal.
I hope my heart heals, and my body feels as it should.
I want to wake up happy again.
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