Even the day seemed depressed: Clouds, swollen, heavy, and low, cried and cried their raindrop tears. Though he wished he could, and though he certainly felt as if he should, he did not cry in solidarity with the clouds. The clouds cried alone and for reasons which he did not understand, and for reasons which he did not contemplate; for he had his own reasons for which he wanted to cry and for which he spent a considerable amount of time contemplating.
But the day wasn’t really depressed. Intellectually, he knew that as a matter of fact; but, as a matter of feeling, he couldn’t help but think that because of his own sadness, the day, too, was sad. He thought, couldn’t we, by the sheer force of our moods, affect the environment around us? If our brainwaves are electric, then surely our electric thoughts must do something to that, and those, around us, right?
He softly scoffed at that thought, knowing as a matter of fact that it was impossible for his thinking to affect the weather.
He tried to remember whether he was sad before the day turned dreary or whether the day turned dreary before he became sad. As he pondered the order of the day’s depression, the clouds suddenly broke and a sharp beam of sunlight sliced its way through all the grayness and found its way through his window, turning his room into a brilliant denizen of light. The change in the room from gloom to glow was drastic and forced his eyes into a tight, reactive squint, which, in turn, forced the corners of his mouth upwards into an unsuspecting smile.