As autumn arrives, I sigh at surviving another summer.
I get that seasonal affective disorder is a thing, and this is the time of year when it starts to kick in for some people.
I get it, yet I am utterly, completely wired the other way.
Reaching the end of summer for me is like coming up for air — cool, damp air with just a hint of decaying plant matter.
And while the mere change of a season is unlikely to make much difference in the greater scheme of life — especially as I seem to be living in a version of the United States that is damned and determined to replay the worst hits of the 1960s, day by day diving ever deeper into divisiveness — I cannot help feeling a little better now the longest days are behind us.
lastgreypoet 