Go Outside

Feeling the urge to write is entirely impossible if I’ve not gone outside. I should say, it’s entirely impossible to create anything worth reading if you haven’t gone out into the day. This is, at the very least, the case for me.

Today I’m typing away and feeling none of it. I haven’t done my daily matcha run. It consists of about 20 footsteps across the street to the café. In those footsteps I’m susceptible to the world and it’s offerings. My imagination is heightened as I cross that street. I could be hit by a car. I could see an unusually dressed person. I could have a beautiful, even terrible interaction with a stranger.

In the winter months, excuses as to avoiding the cold weather are bountiful. Somehow going outside becomes this strenuous task. It requires pragmatic thinking. What will I wear? What’s the temperature? Will I need gloves? Boots? It’s a daunting venture, but one I must force myself into doing. I often think of the version of myself hibernating. I see a miserable man, pale to the point of being see-through, with nothing much to say or write or feel beyond cold.

I behold the misfortune of plummeting mentally in the winter months. My optimism is confiscated as soon as the calendar strikes December. I lose all hope for happiness. Having the wherewithal to recognize this condition, I still make excuses. At times, it reminds me I’m only human. At times, it reminds me I’m not much different than a bear, only worse off because I can write.

What I mean to say in all of this is that I need to get outside. I need to get that matcha. I need to go for a run. I need to be outside before I write again. You can agree with this last point.