It’s February, and I’m convinced that February in the Pacific Northwest is one of the most dreary experiences known to man. It’s almost superimposed depression—inescapable and paralyzing. Apathy is binding and compulsory.
The February-like qualities of the Pacific Northwest (cold, wet, dark) are often present throughout the year, but they’re heightened and exaggerated right now—to the extent that the earth’s foggy dampness seems to permeate human brains and bodies.
Each February that I’ve spent in Olympia, I’ve noticed a trend in my own behavior: wanting to sink into the most soul-crushing, mind-numbing, bodily degrading demeanor I can, trying to find a delicate balance between practicing existential self-awareness and completely ignoring my own sanity.