What is the fear? What is the root? Where does it come from and how can it be boiled down to its most primitive state? Anxiety? Depression? Some overwhelming lack of personal understanding?
It could certainly be all of these or none of these or some combination of them. It could certainly be. It’s definitely worse when the sun doesn’t rise as high in the sky. It’s certainly worse when the air grows cold and the ground firms up.
It happens every year. It happens every Sunday. It happens again and again and there does not seem to be an end in sight. So the words come out. The words come out in some feeble attempt to wrangle whatever elusive beast this might be.
It’s like some kind of bizarre metronome that cannot seem to be stopped. There’s no finger that can be lodged between it and it’s fulcrum. It just sits there swinging back and forth perpetually. On and on and on and on.
Sleep on it.