Gray's a gnat to me

Gray days have arrived, robbing the landscape of color:


Along with the color's gone my sense of time.

You wake up. It's gray outside, no shadows on the ground, no discernible light source. The clock alone says it's morning.

You step outside during lunch. The sky's now a lighter shade of gray. The clock and a little rumble in your tummy are all that say midday.

You go home. It's dark gray out. The bus seems crowded with people fleeing the center of town, but unlike people really fleeing, these people have stoic faces, move slowly, and say nothing. You barely make them out in the pallor of the fluorescent bus lighting. It must be evening.

Around this time of year I lose touch with the diurnal cycle and feel like I've lost something else. My mood heads south with the mercury and the birds. I'm no longer revived by the outdoors: the sun cuts a low arc in the sky, the wind puts a harsh whip to my face, and I hardly look up to see the eyes of passersby. In short, I've lost my summer self.