Winter comes each year with a promise of chaos. Like clockwork I cannot stop it. My mind grows darker and my vision fads till all the worlds a dim lit gray. As a child I recall telling my parents I saw in black and white. Assured themselves I was lying. An exaggeration perhaps, but a lie? No.
October ends and the little things I can control are now controlling me. Like an old marionette doll on fraying strings. By December I’m peering up beneath the water. My reality now darker, like twisted, tangled hair that falls off in large clumps and clog my memory. I forget how to sleep, I no longer recognize my reflection. I’m something different? Pale, tall, sometimes bigger but mostly too small. My bones poke and protrude through my skin, my hips have turned to hooks whose only job is to hold up my *******. I’ve gone mad again. It happens every year as far back as I remember. Just don’t leave me here in the icy heart of December.