To be clear, the melancholia I love is not the same as the minor depression I sometimes experience. Connecting the dots between Hygge and a culture (generally speaking) that wants to shelter itself from an increasingly harsh political climate is not particularly hard.Īnd besides, there’s an appealing element of coziness connected to it all, of burrowing deep into oneself, to snuggle up within the depths of your feelings. Hygge is a tradition born from the need to cultivate joy in the simple things, most often associated with activities and decor to create a sense of cozy during long and harsh winters. In fact, the recent American interest in Hygge strikes me as having a link to melancholy. It’s a Tumblr cliché, for one thing: loving thunderstorms, the feeling of a warm mug between two hands, sighing loudly. It sounds weird when you consider that Instagram mid-July is an endless feed of people celebrating summer, but I cannot be alone in my preference toward melancholia. You know that scene in Big Little Lies where Madeline says she loves her grudges? I feel that way about my ephemeral bursts of sadness. The Pacific Northwest city promised a consistent, atmospheric grayness - the perfect conditions for my frequent bouts of melancholy to thrive. I hate summer so much that a few years ago, I moved to Seattle for the weather. I much prefer a coverage of clouds, Nina Simone records on repeat and to be alone with my thoughts. I feel this most intensely in New York City, where people say things all winter long like, “I just can’t wait for it to be summer again.” I can. There’s too much pressure to go outside when it’s sunny, to wave at babies, to frolic. But mostly, I hate the constant sunshine. I hate it for the obvious reasons: heat, sweat, bugs.
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