The rain is getting to be too much, it's gaining on me. Depressing and dull. I am not one that flirts easily or well with misery, only often so. Melancholy sinks me in a way to which others seem immune; a cuckold to despair. Driving again today into the rain, then driving home in it unchanged, unhinged. It is ceaseless, dismal and dense - a frustrating end of the spirit, ripe with yet unmade errors.
I walked to the car and the clouds sat heavy and low across the bay. I looked out towards San Quentin but it was no longer visible, a terrible dream vanished, only a mile away, unseen. Just water disappearing into cloud and fog, then a sightlessness unmissed.
The ashen murk stretches from horizon to horizon, in all directions equally, sitting heavily but not motionless above, stealing the dark mountain line from view. The silhouettes indiscernible, then diffuse, then lost. It is a grayness that lets little of day's light through, yet all of night's darkness passes without complaint, without struggle. It is something unthinkable, or worse.
It would be called despondency were I not writing this, not thinking this through.