The Comforter.

I hate winter rain. The damp gray skies and the fog and the mist. Somehow it's not romantic at all. The dew drops on the leaves on an early morning or the silent drops steadily making puddles on the rather indifferent ground. Somehow, winter depletes rain of all romanticism-a strictly personal point of view. It's a very inconvenient marriage of two very distant clones. Both induce me with melancholy, both can make me uncomfortably nostalgic and both make me day-dream more than usual. But somehow when they are united and surround me in real-time, it takes away half of that charm. When the thoughts cloud up with images that vapourise but never condense and shall perhaps never precipitate. A strange sensation creeps all through, all over, as I hide under my comforter, tucked in, blanketed and warm. Foetal and safe-like. The darkness helps and makes things seem more mysterious. The shroud provides some much needed privacy. I feel at peace. The restlessness goes away for a while and I am finally alone with all my thoughts and feelings and the thousand sensations that I crave to feel and savour but don't ever get to. Imagination helps. But I still don't enjoy winter rain particularly. But then I guess seasons or season changes don't really matter too much and I can feel the same way any time of the year, any time of the day. As soon as i slip under my comforter, it's like a whole new world embraces me and I feel at home.