It's the second day of ceaseless rains and just when I thought winter had ebbed into chipped flakes of orange rust ready to dissolve into spring warmth, it's come back with a Brr.
There's a frozen chill in the air, and we're back to adding a couple more woollen layers on our skin.
The sky is every bit apocalyptic chic, raging black clouds sewn at its hem, spouting tundra showers of frigid dank.
The world outside is wet, black and apathetic..not very unlike any other day.
Rainy days bring with them a cocooning sense of concedable excuses, where you could get away with the worst of things, or work halfheartedly and no one would notice (or not even work at all). Hearts burn brighter than usual to compensate the gloom ( or perhaps it's my wishful thinking), or conceivably they just serve as a fuel to for procastination—after all it's raining, and you don't expect people to run errands and get caught in traffic jams or get wet or even fall sick.
Sunless bleak adds another dimension to your day at home. Like revelling in an extended, slightly bright night. Where chores can happen when they happen (it's so dark ), and you want to dismember your daily routine to festive fragments of celebratory off day and indulge because this day does not exist.
It's on days like these that you want to survive on either picking things out of your fridge without having to bother strolling into your kitchen, or shimmer into a domestic goddess mode and cook everything you wouldn't normally. Everything fried, everything sweet, lodged under warm sheets, nursing a cup of tea..in unlit cold tomb of your room leisurely hibernating.
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