Winter's Poem

The chill in the air suggested something.
All seasons have a distinct impression, a feeling that sticks to my memories. Or maybe it's more that the memories stick to the seasons. It wasn't quite winter, but not quite fall. Too cold for brisk walks in the mountains and too warm for parkas and snow angels. I felt the nudge of comfy plum sweaters and steaming soup, suggesting that calm before hurricane was beginning. That safe time of year, that was special for no particular other reason than that.
It seemed like everyday I saw the world through new glasses. I am not talking major paradigm shifts or mood swings. The world just felt a little different every day, and thus I felt a little different about it. A chill in the air or a shaft of sunlight had a persuasion over me I would never understand. It was really not so much of a feeling of sadness, grief, anxiety, happiness, love or anger. It was more complex than that. Like a room full of strings. Millions of different colors stretch in all directions, connections and crossing. It's impossible to walk through, vaguely similar to what I imagine an exploding loom to look like. They blend and intertwine, impossible to separate, creating an intricate culmination of a reaction.
It's not as simple as rose colored glasses. It's not even as simple as multi-colored glasses. It's the result of an experience, the result of a life. I feel myself on the edge of an explanation, only to grasp at things beyond the reach of comprehension.
I step out of my mind, feeling how I feel, living how I live, loving how I love, thinking how I think.

"I don't look back much as a rule. All this way before murder was cool. But your memory is here and I'd like it to stay. Warm light on a winter's day."
~ Pink Bullets by the Shins