That mysterious, terrible anxiety felt on a beautiful day–whether that of the spring, summer, fall, or winter–is perhaps better understood when we realize that such anxiety is not one, but many anxieties. To wit, that anxiety is:
The anxiety of not knowing whether this beautiful day is not the harbinger of a terrible day; for do not all accounts of disaster begin by noting the innocent beauty of an ‘ordinary day like any other’?;
The anxiety of despairing that this beautiful day is not being ‘lived,’ ‘used,’ ‘experienced,’ ‘utilized,’ or ‘seized’ ‘well enough.’ This is lent an especially melancholic sense when we feel others are ‘outperforming’ us on their said ‘usage’ of the day–a gleaning obtained from their public proclamations (these days, on social media) of such feats. We are anxious because we sense that we are spending this day ‘wrong,’ that we could be spending it in some ‘better fashion’;
The anxiety of not knowing whether this day is the last of those like it, never to be seen again, and time is inexorably running out on it even as grasp and seize at its offerings;
The despair at the memory of many days like this, in days gone by, that were not then realized for being the beautiful days they were; perhaps this day is similarly condemned.
The beautiful day is at hand; that much is certain. But all else is still uncertain and provisional, and so long as that is the case, we are anxious.