COLUMN: The cold and empty days of winter

From Nathan Smith's, "White Lightning," Fall '97 From Nathan Smith's, "White Lightning," Fall '97 That's me, scraping a languid shuffle across the bricks. Wind blows through my paint-streaked coat; I hunch my shoulders and tense my torso, hopelessly grasping at my escaping body heat. My frame shakes; my heart quivers against my ribs. Icy eyes peer out from squinted lids. The world wavers as my vision floods with hot tears, blurring the forms of passers-by. Every winter is the winter of my discontent. The effect is not absolute; the great scheme of nature weaves beauty into gloom. In my room, the clutch of the coffee cup slowly thaws my fingers. In bed, my toes at last grow toasty in the shroud of eiderdown. After breakfast, the blast of walking into the world sharpens my mind to the day. These sporadic moments remind me that I am in fact alive. Yet winter times like these are few and far between. Oh certainly there is coziness, curling up by the three log fire, sipping brandy in your little cove away from the howling winds. But these are the pleasures reserved for the wealthy. Winter, like everything else, is easy for the rich. For me, melancholy overwhelms. Dim grey skies, sudden misting rains, people wound in wool and down -- too dead set on getting indoors to stop and connect with one another. We nod assent, offer muffled "hello"s through scarves and such, and scurry on to the nearest, warmest shelter. In the dead of winter we withdraw -- we stay inside, physically and psychologically. Our lives are fraught with chilling isolation. Something profound nags me in these, the days of haze and ice. Why must my mind play tricks when the temperature drops? Beneath the stocking cap my brain replays lost days, not as they actually were, but as they could never have been. The cruelty of hindsight reveals every point at which another choice might have made for a better life. There I passed over a world of raucous freedom; there went the last chance at happiness with the one who might have been mine; there wasted the days when passions flowed through life like lava, slowly scorching my soul. Nevermind that none of it is true. Nevermind the folly of regret for things you should have done but simply could not. Reason has no place in remembrance. The disappointment of history only compounds the emptiness of the present. Songs ring hollow in my ears, foods impart no flavors to my tongue, my hands refuse to feel. I dwell on awkward conversations, repartee with friends once so lively, now brittle, stale and habitual. At parties I linger in the corner, brooding, wondering what I have come for and whether I might be better off in a cafe somewhere, scratching down thoughts for no one to read. Yet even my head full of thoughts seems empty. Ask me what's bothering me, and you get nothing. It's easier than pretending substance to my soul. I am deep but empty, like a dry well. Even the force of disappointment is met with grim indifference. Threats loom for the work I hold so dear, perhaps soon to undo years of effort. Loved ones left behind at home grow older, weaker, fainter in their presence in my life and on this earth, while I am stuck hundreds of miles from sharing their precious remaining days. I find myself exploited once more by someone who wants me but would have none of me. Last night, the sad admissions of this friend forlorn, the bitter tear clinging to her cheek: despite my affection for her these touching scenes brought only a long sigh. I have been used so many times; am I now used up? Do you struggle still to see what I see? Look at the trees. What strikes you? The grey sky no longer obscured in a fluttering shroud of green, barren branches twisted and peeling, the curled brittle leaves heaped dead upon the earth. You see them as I see my life; not for what stands, but for what has been lost: the beauty which has fallen away, the vibrance and color now drained, the growth stunted in the freeze. Once I reached out and soaked in the sun, now I huddle in my corner and wait out the winter. Moods, like seasons, cannot help but change. I have never thought myself stuck forever in these shadowy valleys. Yet dreams and memories remain impotent in the face of a dispassionate here and now. No doubt tomorrow I shall have different eyes through which to view my place in the world, but for now I wander dispossessed of thought and sensation. Though I risk presumption, I cannot help but think we have all been here before. Yet however many of us live these days of emptiness, however many the multitudes trapped even briefly in meaninglessness, we must necessarily come here alone. The page you now hold means different things to different people: a distraction from class, company for lunch, a blanket on a park bench. But I write with a purpose, groping at a paradox. Not to ask for help you could not give nor for pity I would not want, but to offer a word of comfort. Whether you're stranded in the tundra or wandering in the desert, isolation is shared.