the tree with the mangled roots

I remember sitting here, in this exact place, one year ago. A place of refuge and solitude. Of peace. Back then I was weary. I sat down to rest, my back pressed against the tree with the mangled roots, watching the leaves drift away as they floated down the stream. That same weariness haunts me now. Because I can't help but feel that things were brighter then. The sky less gray than it is today. The river and pasture have lost their sparkle, where the sun once shone. I wonder if it will be like this every year in my future. A little bit grayer. The river a little murkier. More and more like a dream. Age and experience I gain as the years go by, but something is always lost. I will dwindle away to nothing. The leaves are swept away on the current and forgotten.


Update: (March 15th) So I found a parallel. This is one of my favorite parts of White Nights, and I was probably remembering it while writing, which is why they are so similar, though the events I described did take place.
...

"I remember that exactly a year ago, at exactly this hour, on this very pavement, I wandered about cheerlessly and alone just as I did today. And I can't help remembering that at the time, too, my dreams were sad and dreary, and though I did not feel better then I somehow can't help feeling that it was better, that life was more peaceful, that at least I was not then obsessed by the black thoughts that haunt me now, that I did not suffer from these gloomy and miserable qualms of conscience which now give me no rest either by day or by night... Look, you say to yourself, look how everything in the world is growing cold. Some more years will pass, and they will be followed by cheerless solitude, and then will come tottering old age, with its crutch, and after it despair and desolation. Your fantastic world will fade away, your dreams will wilt and die, scattering like the yellow leaves from the trees." ~Dosteovsky, "White Nights"