Chicken Little

It's uncanny what happens when the sun sets before you are prepared for the night. It's like dialing a number you have always dialed, only to forget the last digit.

And you sit there.

Staring at the phone, trying to figure out which passing thought that day was one too many. Which one pushed muscle memory over the edge.

That is winter to me.

For as long as I can remember, I have dreaded the changing of the clocks. It almost seems absurd how shocked I am when darkness comes too early. Because it always comes too early. Summer is a time of action, and winter one of introspection. I have come to name November and April the months of inertia. Just as I have fallen back onto the beaten path of movement and sun and skin, the quiet time comes.

I am more afraid of winter than summer.

And I know why. It is easy for me to pass by introspection. Summer comes with a built in auto-pilot of warmth and sunroofs and long drives and rock and roll. When winter comes, I don't have a choice. I have to face the paperwork that time has left on my desk. I have to acknowledge that six months ago I was living in New York city with a man, a job, and an entirely different life.

That I ran for the hills.

That I am alone now.

And more importantly, that I need to be alone now. That no soul on earth will ever make me happy as my own. That in being lost, I am in the right place. That this is the year of the three point turn, of making sure that my decisions are grounded in what I want at the core of myself.

That being said, I still miss the sun.