Light De Candle, Everything is A'ight.

The first week off daylight savings time could be one of the more miserable weeks in the year. You haven't gotten used to the sun beginning to set at 4:30, or eating dinner in the dark. You forget what your room looks like lit by the sun instead of those florescent lights. 7 pm feels like the ungodly hour of 3 in the morning. A walk across campus to the library feels like a trek through Alaskan wilderness during the month that completely forgoes sunlight, and the snow-covered earth seems to have forgotten sunrises, sunsets, and everything in between. And some ancient, elemental urge is tugging at you, demanding rest, quiet. Hibernation.

So I turn to lines from a fifteen year old television show, actually set in the Alaskan wilderness.

"Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry, "More light." Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlight. Neon, incandescent lights that banish the darkness from our caves to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's field. Little tiny flashlights for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Light is knowledge, light is life, light is light."

"Continuous unremitting darkness has been known to send some people into an emotional tailspin, so the management here at KBHR radio suggests locking away the firearms. The desire to stick that 45 between the teeth can get pretty strong at times, so why invite temptation?"

It might not be the month without sunlight. I may not be in a emotional, suicidal tailspin. But living half of your day in the dark is hard to adjust to, nonetheless.