I don’t like the sun much, though.
The sun generally reminds me of how pale I’ll always be. It reminds me of my allergy to too much exposure. And it reminds me that things aren’t always what they seem.
Because while the sun peeked out from behind the clouds today, it didn’t mask what the weather was actually doing.
It was cold, and the wind blew.
I’m better off on the days of dreary melancholy. Those are the days that my anxiety is at its lowest and my happiness is at its highest.
Perhaps this is just because those are the days that I know exactly how the weather is; the world is transparent in those moments.
And maybe I feel best on the yucky days because my many layers of sweaters and scarves and mittens and hats and blah, blah, blah make me feel safe and warm. As if they’re my life source or something silly like that.
I’ve given my explanation for liking the cold, blustery days to many people, and I get the same response from the majority of them: Shivers and distasteful looks on their faces like they’ve just smelled something awful.
But I rather like being on the strange side of the world. My view is much more interesting over here anyway.
So I’ll continue to distrust the sun and thrive as the weather allows me to put on more layers.