Our year has changed into november

There's more snow after last nights rain and despair and anger over feet so cold of wet I wasn't sure they would ever feel again.
There's more chill today and even though the world is white and it's not even 3pm yet, it's getting dark. I can see it and I can feel it.

Had forgotten all about how it is to live in winter: that is that it is not different from anything else in any way at all.
Neil Young's Dead Man in my earphones makes me feel something I don't know.

So now I could say it's new year, yeah?
I could have energy and interest to finish everything that I haven't finished, yeah?
I should do something about my quarters; I should think without writing and write without pausing to complete the works I should complete;
I should be courageous enough to contact this one person who I seem to be mentally entwined with - just an observation of his stressed face when I felt stressed;
I should have time to look at what I dream, not just get up, get dressed and run around;
I should have time to contemplate stories;
I should have to grab myself the life that I know is just right here
It feels like something was taken from me, something was stolen
since the autumn ended abruptly without me having time to enjoy the sweaters and chilly evenings and stargazings in a garden smelling sweetly of old leaves and apples,
in a world where everything is soft colours and clear skies and
rain.
There's only cold icy disappeared world.
There's more under the surface but I don't feel like I have the energy to look so deep
to dig further.

Let's see where this takes me.