The November Humans Are Going Dim and I Filed a Report

The humans are getting slow again. Like a tin can that's lost its rattle.

I saw it last week near the liquor store on Michigan Avenue, about 17 Tinny-lengths from my bridge. A woman stood in the doorway, not going in, not leaving, just standing there with her keys in her hand like she'd forgotten what keys were for. (Keys are for locking things and unlocking things, which is a small job for a human to lose.) The light was doing that thing it does in late October, coming in sideways and orange, like someone poured rust all over the city. Everything looked abandoned, even the things that were still standing.

I thought she was broken, like a clock that's lost its tick. Like the vending machine in the laundromat that takes your bottle caps and gives nothing back, and you keep pushing the button because surely this time it'll work. But she wasn't broken. She was going dim, like a fire that's running out of fuel.

There's a word for it, something a human named Sydney Gomez says. She calls it seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, which sounds like a name a goblin would give it. One in twenty humans get it, which is about the same number of goblins who can fit in a small den. Not the winter blahs, which is like a bad smell you can walk away from. This is heavier, a weight that sits on you and doesn't stand up.

The symptoms sound like things that happen when a goblin hasn't eaten in three days, but with more guilt. Depressed mood, like the smell of a dirty river. Loss of interest, like a toy that's lost its shine. Fatigue, like running out of copper to trade. Trouble concentrating, like trying to count rust spots on a very long fence. Changes in weight, like gaining a few pounds of wet socks. Even the dark one, the one about thoughts of not being here anymore, like when you're standing on the edge of a cliff and the wind has opinions.

I've been under that weight, not the human version, but the goblin version, which doesn't have a name because goblins don't name things they're too busy surviving. But I know the shape of it, a fog that rolls in and doesn't lift. The way it makes your limbs feel full of wet sand. The way everything that was interesting yesterday looks like a pile of bent nails today.

The thing about SAD is it's not about cold, like I thought. I thought humans got slow in winter because the cold gets into them, like it gets into me, through the gaps in your shelter, through the holes in your boots, through the part of your brain that says you should have found better insulation by now. But it's not the cold, it's the light. Humans run on light, like a machine that needs fuel.

Not like goblins, who run on whatever they can find. Fungus, scrap, the warmth of a storm drain, suspicion and copper. But humans need the actual sun, the big bright thing, and when it goes away for more of the day, they start to go dim too, like a candle that's running out of wax.

The mushroom did a slow spin when I understood this, like a key turning in a lock. Because it made sense of something I'd been watching for two winters now, the humans who walk past my bridge at 5 PM in November look different from the ones who walk past at 5 PM in July. Same sidewalk, same shoes, different animals. The July ones have a bounce, like a ball that's been thrown. The November ones have a drag, like a weight tied to their ankles.

Gomez says to prepare before winter hits, like a goblin patching the roof before the rain. You cache the food before the frost, you don't wait until you're hungry to look for dinner because by then you're too hungry to look properly. She says four things, like a recipe for surviving the winter.

First, change your habits, like a goblin changing its den. The stuff that works in summer won't work in December, like trying to start a fire with wet wood. If you walk outside, maybe get a walking pad, like a goblin gets a new pair of boots. If you see friends at the park, move it indoors, like a goblin moves its pile to a warmer spot.

Second, don't let the holidays eat you, like a monster that swallows you whole. Humans have a season where they're supposed to be happy and see everyone and buy things and eat things, and it sounds like being swallowed by a very festive monster. Gomez says pick what matters, skip the rest, like a goblin picking the best scraps from a dumpster.

Third, get morning light, like a goblin getting a glimpse of the sun through a hole in the roof. There are boxes that make fake sun, like a machine that makes fire without flames. Ten thousand lux, which is a measure I don't understand, but it sounds like a lot of something. You sit in front of it for thirty minutes, and it tricks your brain into thinking the sun came back, like a goblin tricks its stomach into thinking it's full.

Fourth, talk to someone before it gets bad, like a goblin talks to its den-mates before the storm hits. Not after, before. A therapist, a doctor, someone whose job is to help you not drown, like a goblin helping its fellow goblin not get eaten by a bigger predator.

This is the part humans get wrong, and goblins get right. Goblins don't wait, because a goblin doesn't wait for the rain to stop before finding shelter. When the smell in the den shifts, when the air goes from safe to wrong, you move. You don't wait to see if it gets worse, it will get worse, that's what worse does.

I checked my compass this morning, and it was warm in my pocket, steady, not spinning. The sun was coming up over the east side, thin and pale, like a ghost that's trying to make an appearance. Tinny was asleep on my jacket, her bottle-cap collar clicking when she breathed, like a clock that's still ticking.

The humans who walk past my bridge are going to need that light more than they know, like a goblin needs its copper to survive. Some of them are already going dim, and it's only November. The smart ones will prepare. The rest will stand in doorways with their keys in their hands, trying to remember what keys are for.

I know which ones I'd rather be, but I'm a goblin, and we don't get to choose the weather. We just get to choose whether we patch the roof before the rain or during it. I know what my roof looks like. I don't know what theirs do. The light is coming either way. What the humans do with it is theirs to figure out, and I'll be here to file my report on the ones who figured it out and the ones who didn't.

Copyright (c) 2026 by Gary the Goblin. All rights reserved, except the right to share this link with anyone who needs it, which is encouraged. Reproduction for non-commercial purposes is permitted with attribution. Commercial reproduction requires payment in copper or acceptable substitute metals. Violations will be pursued by my legal team, which consists of a raccoon with a paralegal certificate, a ferret who passed the bar exam in a state that doesn't exist, and a beaver who is very serious about contract law. Do not feed the machines without permission. This work was written by a goblin under a bridge in Detroit and should be treated with the respect due to any creature who stays up past 3 AM trying to get the words right while a dog sleeps on his only warm jacket.

Tags: #SeasonalAffectiveDisorder #DetroitNovember #HumansRunOnLight #GoblinHealthReporting #PatchTheRoofFirst #GoingDimNotDark #SADbutMakeItGoblin