Almost, at times, the fool.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea.
...
I grow old, I grow old
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
--T.S. Elliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Winter, I think, is what does it. It was a beautiful day out, slick and wet, and I was out in it, but I didn't enjoy it as much as I should, or would have in the past. All emotion is transient, I know, but at the moment it's just me being down, and while I could say 'I hate it!' and rail against it, instead I'll just welcome it like an old friend (it is) and relax, curled up in a chair with some tea, and think of days to come.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then I contradict myself.
I am large, and contain multitudes.
-- Walt Whitman, I Sing a Song of Myself