These days I have trouble breaking out of melancholy and self-doubt. Unable to engage in much physical activity, I stare out the window at the gray sky and snow flurries. A raven caws. He flaps up from a tree branch and rows across the sky. At night the wind, moaning and whistling around the eaves, seems to be talking to me, but what it says I can't make out. It's all vowels and no consonants.
If I sit down at the piano to while away the time, I find myself playing Ravel's Pavane Pour Une Infante Défunte or Elgar's Sospiri. I worry and wonder about things I need not and I know that I need not, but I do. I also know that all this will pass and brighter days and brighter thoughts will come. But still.... At this moment, this eternal now, that seems like a comforting lie.
