29° and Falling

For days, I circle the site. I sniff it out like a trembling puppy: curious, but suspicious, longing, but unable to commit. My alert antennae begin to calm, relax, and words dance slowly back across my mind. It can't be helped. I couldn't stay away if I tried.

Early out and having stopped in midtown for some christmas shopping, I walk home down a ridiculously bright Seventh Avenue. When I was little, they told me not to stare into the sun because it would make you blind. I risk assess. Decide that I'd rather escape seasonal affective disorder and that state where all I can do is sleep for five months, and that I will deal with the consequences when they come. Walk 30 blocks staring straight into the light. So far, I haven't gone blind.

Later, I went for a run along the Hudson. Two days later and 25 degrees colder than last time, and suddenly only a fraction of the usual crowd remained. I couldn't blame them. My chest burned from the cold, and flashes of Alice running with the Red Queen zoomed past me, as the wind hit me straight on and it was hard enough just to stand still, much less move forward. My earphones are broken and I was left to the iPod of my mind. All it would play was variations on Ah vous-dirai je, maman. It wasn't entirely helpful. Still, by the time I reached Chelsea, my body had warmed up, and the Jersey shore glittered so much it hurt, clearer somehow in the frozen skies. The restless waters so black, so weary, lapped against the piers as though trying to get up, escape the depths, while my thoughts arranged themselves neatly along my spine. The magic of running along water gets me everytime. For a short moment, I am nowhere at all; I am lost in the water, and I am free.

I stepped into the hot shower. Pushed shut the window by the tub that always falls open and lets the bone-chilling draft rush in. The charm of old apartments. My skin flushed. This was a good day.