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Sunday. A rainy dreary winter Sunday here in Appalachia. The kind of day you just want to stay in bed. The kind of day that depression thrives on. You just want to pull your covers over your head and not even look out the window. Its the kind of day where the cold mist hangs low in the hollers and everything takes on this feeling of dampness. The smell of graveyard dirt permeates the air and your mind wonders to tales of ghosts and demons.
It is the kind of day that if you dwell on it it will dig deep into your soul, find the loneliness, and take root.
I’ve seen a few of those days. Gray, dreary days tend to get me down.