The capacity for forgetting what the dark seasons of the year actually feel like is remarkable, isn’t it? I know what to expect–the time change comes, the world changes, and suddenly it’s dark at six o’clock. Can you believe it’s six?, you or I say, and, No, can you? No, I can’t.
It’s not this that’s the weird part, of course. The weird part is how the day actually shrinks. How dinner gets earlier, how you feel like it’s evening when a month ago it was late afternoon. I can understand the wicked air that comes with a sudden drop in barometric pressure, but not this seasonal dysphoria.
Why is it that I get more done with these short days? Maybe I should move to Alaska, but only for the winters.
I’d never go outside and instead write 800,000 word novels that could crush Grady Tripp without trying. That’s what I’d do in Alaska. (Shhh, Colleen, I know.)
Why, yes, I did just finish packeting for this month. I’m going to go sleep now, or possibly hibernate. It’s well after dark, after all.