There’s a hinge point each year, and often it’s subtle. There’s this sneaky silent moment where rainfall turns into snowfall and without warning Autumn has passed and Winter has been born again. There’s a strange sense of excitement when this happens, but a deep-rooted sense of melancholy that accompanies it. Now, we think, we’re in for the cold once again, we’re in for the deep and enduring darkness that will last well into the Spring, and we must once again endure it. Call this a hibernation, if we must, call this the retreating to the caves we’ve created, the hope that we’ve stored enough inside ourselves to make it through again. Call it what we will, but it’s here, and so we must do this dance again.
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