Sunday morning I stood waiting for the elevator. How funny. Waiting for an elevator to go down seven floors, so that I can go run three miles. “People are so weird,” I said aloud. Then realized I was talking to myself at 5:30 AM in an empty hallway and laughed. Point proven.

Dawn had just begun to sketch the outline of day on the sky as I made my way to the street. I walked past the church they built on the corner, towering. Sprinklers on, red flowers blooming. Light crept in around the corners of the skyline and I paid close attention. Listened to my footsteps. Fell into rhythm with my breath.

Every few minutes I turned up the volume on my iPod. Drowned out any specific thought that was trying to keep my attention. Changed the display on my watch so I’d stop checking my pace, my heart rate. Did everything I could to just run.

The world started to wake up. Gentle light coaxing pigeons, squirrels, people out onto the street. Everything dark red. The west is on fire, and the smoke hung thick in the air, cushioning me from the world. Haze. That’s how it’s all felt lately, anyway.

I climbed the hill back up toward our apartment, lungs heavy. Started listing things I should try if I want to get better. Run more. Meditate longer. Lift heavier. Go to more therapy. Change my doses. Stop calling my brain defective. Just deal with it.

I told myself, “I don’t know what, but I have to do something different. I have to make this different.”

But I neglected to realize it always already is.