Do not go gentle into that good night.
The Welsh modernist poet Dylan Thomas was one of the first ever to be labeled a "doomed" poet by his peers. A public drunk and verbacious lout, we seem to share lots in common with his style. Tuesdays are for beer drinkin' and yelling in public; not so much as arguments, but you get what I mean. We shake and rattle bells and speakers purposefully, and I'm certain society as a whole would look on our subculture as doomed. I mention this because this time of year always brings the moody and undefinable existential gloom of seasonal and personal transition. FALL IS DEATHHHHH. His poem, "Do not go gentle into the good night" is a prime example of this inner conflict: " Do not go gentle into that dark night, / Old age should burn and rave at the close of day; / Rage, rage against the dying of the light". It's also fitting for what we do: rage against the dying of the light under the lights.
I find the ambiguity of transitional moments to be both profound and difficult. Everyone experiences this ether whether switching jobs, moving houses, breakups even...in every instance one moves from comfort to discomfort. From known to unknown. To use an incredibly topical pop culture reference: it feels like the upside-down, except much less cold. And with less visible particulate matter floating everywhere. Lately I've been feeling like complacency is the stale death of my creative existence, so at least with transition comes a challenge to push harder and figure *something* out. It's all about process. It's about continuing on. We all must rage against the dying of the light.
Our transition is also nigh: soon weekday racing will end and The Crusade will begin. "Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, / and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, / Do not go gentle into that good night".