I wish I could be reasonable and say that gray days make me sad and sunny days make me happy, but I can’t. Rainy days are like home towns to me: you may get sick of seeing the same thing every day, but a patch in your heart is made out the place where you belong, no matter how much of a vagrant you are. Thick gray clouds can be either a warm blanket or a plastic bag dropping swift over my head. Sunny days: often, I feel depressed when they make their rare occurrences. I don’t know why, but driving around town under a sky swimming in sun give me a nostalgia for times that exist only in my head. The sun reminds me how small everything is. I don’t know. But sometimes, when the pages of the calendar open the cloudy door and invite the sun in from it’s eight-minute walk, I feel so light and dangerously happy. Dangerous because I think I’m going to fly, I feel so light. Like I can grab on to sunbeams and play acrobat in the sky. But then I can’t. I don’t know.
