Seasonal depression, to paraphrase Allen Ginsberg, is "the total animal soup of time". When you are really in it, how desperately you wish for the justification of a hibernatory period, a recognized biological phenomenon on which to pin your surliness and sleepiness and therefore be released from the penalty box with no demerits.
Today the world is foggy and dark and feels to me like the bottom of a cellar. I need the smells of warmth, home, butter, wool, hot candle wax, bed, blankets, skin, breath, secrecy, safety. A retreat back into prehistory, a time before language, a time before time.
I wish I didn't have to take it to go. But I must, and I can, so I do. Here sits a full and seemingly unused bottle of Winter Star which I purchased at local thrift store. I sense it may have been consigned there in atavistic terror because it out-musks Muscs Koublaï Khän. MKK at least pitches a ger for you and lays down some hospitable felted rugs; Winter Star hands you some ochre-in-bear-grease for self-decoration and shoves you closer to the communal fire.
Which, as it happens this very minute, is where I long to be.
Scent Elements: Bergamot, lavender, carnation, oakmoss, balsam Peru, balsam tolu, labdanum, benzoin, musk, civetone, helvetolide