Winter seems to reveal a darkness that is inherent in the world. I haven’t been many places, but I’ve experienced winter in Colorado where I’ve spent most of my life, in Michigan where I went to college, and for a week here and there in California. Winters are fairly different between the three places, but in them all I’ve sensed what I suppose is simply the state of death or hibernation into which all things go during this season. This state of sleep or dormancy reveals the deeper nature of what is obscured by different times of color and warmth.

I think of this in connection with how I view myself. I have lived an easy, privileged, lucky, blessed life. My current circumstances don’t really give me anything to complain about, as far as bodily comfort and pleasure. This has been true of my entire life. I’ve experienced no major injuries, sicknesses, deaths, or losses of any kind in my life. And yet, in winter, and intermittently during other times of year, I feel deeply depressed, worthless, and pathetic. I often wonder what gives me the right to feel this way. And yet, not to get too philosophical, I think I’m merely experiencing what it means to be human. Loneliness, lack of direction, worthlessness, boredom — these are all merely human experiences, spoken of to the point of banality.

I don’t really have anything to add to the literature of depression. But I think my point was that winter reveals this base state of all nature, and depression for me reveals a corresponding state of all humanity. I reiterate, this is a completely banal, boring, unoriginal statement. But I guess I’m just trying to work through the way I’m feeling, and perhaps justify it in some way, in order to move past it.

Take today. I got off work early, and was actually feeling alright. The sun was out. I went to get some exercise at the gym. Now the sun is about to go down, and I’m starting to feel…something negative. Sadness, loneliness, boredom, I don’t really know. I suppose I’m looking at the clock, at the hours until dinnertime and then watching a show with my roommate, and I’m scared because I don’t know what to do with them. So boredom?

Thinking this way is not good. I inevitably end up trivializing the way I feel, which makes me feel even worse. Pathetic is the word that very frequently comes to mind. So I suppose tying these feelings to something inherent in nature, human and otherwise, is somehow beneficial. But that only leads me to think about all the sadness, suffering and darkness in the world that I am doing absolutely nothing to alleviate. Absolutely nothing. That is objectively true.

Well, maybe not. But in some sense it is. I know that in the remaining hours of today, the most I will possibly do is have a humorous conversation with my roommate, and maybe exchange pleasantries with the person at the mechanic when I go to pick up my car. Are those things worth it?

I’m getting nowhere. I thought maybe writing would be helpful, but every time I try to write I end up here, no further than I was before, perhaps a bit worse for having clearly articulated how pathetic my self-indulgent mood is.

I was thinking about the phrase “tell a story.” Generally we say “tell a story,” a bit more often than “write a story” or “create a story.” To tell a story one must have a story, or find one. I’d like to have a story, but I don’t have one, and I can’t find one. I could create a story, just come up with some events that happen and sort of let it go where it may, but that feels like…sitting down at the piano and playing random keys (which I have done a lot of in my life).

I am empty, dry, and cold, like winter.