The silos on First Ave.
This Thursday, 22nd December, is the winter solstice, the day when the night is the longest. In ancient times, our forebears would observe all manner of dramatic rituals … huge bonfires, virgin sacrifices, fanstastical savior birth narratives, making gifts of heavy inedible cakes. Anything to beat back the wolves of Death and Darkness from the door.
This year, I’m saying “Fuck you” to death and darkness and running face first out into the unknown. I’ve always felt that I was trying to outrun a kind of death when I run. Not capital D death, which is inevitable and possibly our greatest journey of all. I’m talking about what the Bene Gesserit called the “little-death that brings total obliteration” … fear.
I don’t know when my time will come. But I’ll be damned if I’m just going to let myself, my brain, my spirit just sort of relax/laze/slip effortlessly into the emotional stasis that signals the beginning of the end.
We never know if the light at the end of the tunnel is that of delivery or an oncoming train. But waiting on it can’t be an option. Death will come some day, too swiftly, too suddenly, too unexpectedly. But the Little-Death that hangs around in our psychic dark corners is a snivelling, sneaky little fucker who hates action, hates resolve, is terrified by change.
There is a promise buried deep in the shank of the longest night of the year … that it’s only one night long. And that immediately after the clock ticks over to midnight, the days become longer, the nights become shorter. Little-death goes crawling back to the cesspool that bred it.
So fuck you, Little-Death, I’m going for a run. Catch me if you can, asshole.