It snowed today.
I’m usually snapping photos. Dangling from the bridge, much to my camerperson’s chagrin.
“Just one more, *Daniel,” I’d yell. “I promise. Make a snow angel! Now another. Just your arms.”
It’s nearly winter. It’s happy. It’s bright. Hell, it’s the holidays. Christmas. Santa parade this weekend. Happy, happy, joy, joy.
But I couldn’t get into a snappy-camera-happy mood today. I’m stuck in a funk. Cringe at the thought of Christmas. It used to be my favourite holiday. You know the feeling.
You don’t feel like decorating, though you know you “should.” Put up the tree. And the Christmas Village. Throw some lights on the house. Display my Santas. The reindeer. The freakin’ one horse open sleigh. The thought exhausts me, where it used to excite me. Depression? No. Dissatisfaction at work? Hardly.
I’m stuck. I’m torn. I’m fighting a moral and ethical dilemma.
And, trust me, you lose yourself in the struggle. The act. The show. The good days, it’s a genuine smile. The bad days, it’s tears in the newsroom bathroom. A fake smile behind the story, losing pieces of your soul. Your only escape is iTunes and Spotify because you’d rather lose yourself to music than fight with a decision.
It’s literally the winter of discontent. Christmas courtesy of “The Notebook.” You’ll hurt someone if you leave. If you stay, the price will be high – and you don’t mean monetary. You can’t find yourself, though you keep looking. You see the shadow, then it disappears. Groundhog Day is everyday.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll plunk myself in the snow and flap my legs and arms. To feel alive. It’s been awhile.
Because the snow’s still falling, and so am I.
I don’t need someone to catch me.
I need someone to find me.
*Name changed for privacy.