Seasonal Syndrome

I woke up at 7:16 this morning, distressed by the sound of my radiator making its first rounds of the season. It was only white noise but it scared me out of a dream about something I'll never recall.

I was barkeep at a birthday party last night for a good friend, at first, it was too busy for me to enjoy it. That happens at parties no matter your employment.

Then I had a blast. I saw people I hadn't seen in years, I got my boss tanked, the birthday girl danced behind the bar drunk with me and broke several glasses, we all sang badly. I walked home at 4 after closing the bar, and it was cold like autumn for the first time this year. The streets get naked that time of morning. Only the desperate or the working are out, people waited for falafel, there was vomit on the village pavement, I saw a fistfight break out on Sullivan Street over nothing.

But when I woke up, early, split head, confused, vaguely warm, I felt cheap. I had only contours of the night before, there was so much in it that I lost. What would I do with what I kept if I could keep it? Nothing, right?

Is it a seasonal syndrome for everything to be in the throes of death? You're wrested from rest by the trill of your fortunate heat, not remembering your dreams, not remembering your life.

I'm so lucky.