All The Light In The World

Every year at around this time I start a battle with the season, a season I ironically adore. As days grow short and sun becomes scarce the (mis)wiring in my brain begins to direct me towards lethargy, and worse. It’s become routine, but it’s still terrifying to feel it set in.

Imagine feeling bad, knowing you feel bad, wanting not to feel bad, but knowing deep down in your clockwork that this is how you’re supposed to feel. You were built this way. It feels bad, but it feels right at the time, and the only thing motivating you to change is the memory of a self who didn’t feel this way.

I’m getting better at fighting it. I no longer wait until I’m at my worst to do something. Physical activity is the best counter I’ve found, and in the last few days I’ve walked long walks around DC, gone hiking on Sugarloaf Mountain, and gone running around my neighborhood.

On my way home from that evening run a couple nights ago I saw a gentleman, clearly just about to set off for a jog himself, stopped by a sloppily pulled-over car. I walked over to find said gentleman attempting to offer assistance to an older man, the car’s driver, spaced out in his seat and sucking on the covered end of a Bic lighter like an inhaler. His face was a mask of inhuman placidity, with something pleading showing through at the corners of his eyes.

“Are you alright?” “Do you need an ambulance?” “Have you been drinking?”

All concerns were greeted with a shrug. “Sure.” “No.” “No.” He barely shook his head and contemplated returning the lighter to his lips.

As neither of us had a mobile phone at hand, the other jogger took it upon himself to phone the police from the liquor store on the corner. “His license plate: OLD JOE,” said the jogger, before we smiled the weak smile of camaraderie in a bad situation and parted ways.

I ran for a reason.