I don't know if the reason is the weather, a flaw in my character or just pure laziness, but somehow, on days like today, I'm never capable of doing anything but sitting in an armchair with a book in one hand and a cup of chai in the other, daydreaming. When the sky is the same colour dark gray as the bare fields in the distance and the cold Autumn rain has been beating against my windows for days. There might be a couch instead of the armchair - or my bed, or even the bedroom floor, covered with pillows and blankets. And chai is a recent edition, I've only started liking it this Autumn, it used to be coffee or tea with cream or hot chocolate or hot milk with honey and Carmolis. But a book, a cup with something warm, and daydreaming instead of reading remain. It's been my little ritual since I was small. The bleak, gloomy and depressing November has always kind of been my thing. The time I can curl up in a blanket and create a cosy, snug place for myself somewhere in the warmth of my home, withdraw from everyone and everything and contemplate on the state of the world we live in. As I age, it gets harder and harder to rip myself away from this content still and walk out of the door in the morning to do everyday stuff - go to school, converse, socialize, work. It's manageable for the rest of the year. But November, when raindrops form rivers on my windows, and everything is the same shale gray where-ever you look, and the sky hangs above the world like a wet cloth and the flames in the fireplace are the only patch of colour anywhere and the smell of an unread book lingers in the alluring waft of a hot drink... I find it insufferable to do anything but sit in the warmth of the fire and daydream.
