SWARTHOS

It was one of those cool, fog-soaked mornings in Los Angeles—the kind that wraps the city in a gauzy shroud of uncertainty, like a bad trip gone awry. My ever-loyal canine companion, Urt, was ready to tackle the day, barking with that uncontainable enthusiasm that only a dog can muster, and I reluctantly strapped on my shoes, prepared for a jog that would serve as my morning pilgrimage through this surreal suburban wasteland.

As we loped down the cracked sidewalks, Urt, in his unyielding canine wisdom, led the way—bounding ahead like a furry, four-legged drug dealer delivering the morning’s first hit of adrenaline. We cruised past the dilapidated decor of Surin Arjwong’s yard, a gaudy display of Christmas trinkets fighting against the oppressive gloom of late December. Surin was outside, fiddling with the tinsel and lights, and we stopped for a brief chat that teetered between the mundane and the absurd, as most conversations in this godforsaken city tend to do.

But it was when Urt and I picked up the pace, veins pumping and heart racing, that the fog in my head thickened and began to cloud my vision. I felt a euphoric rush—an insidious little high that crept up on me, sweet and seductive, like the promise of an illicit thrill just around the corner. But then, like the ominous sound of a switch being flipped, my sight began to fade. It was a harrowing dance of light and dark, as if I were a character in a badly scripted horror flick, spiraling down into some cosmic abyss.

Panic threatened to grab hold of me—a wild beast gnashing its teeth at the edges of my sanity—but I fought back. I stumbled to a nearby tree, my hands gripping the rough bark like it was the last remnant of stability in a world gone mad. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to find some semblance of calm as a passerby shot me a look that screamed, “Not my problem, man,” and hurried away. I didn’t blame him. Who wants to be the audience to a show like this?

This wasn’t my first rodeo with these horrifying little visual excursions. The first time, I had careened straight to the Emergency Ward, adrenaline coursing through my veins like a bad drug. But by now, after the third encounter with this wretched phenomenon, I figured I could ride it out—embrace the madness instead of running from it. I had my theories: maybe it was the blood pressure spikes and drops—who the hell knows? I’d leave that cryptic puzzle to my stunning Egyptian doctor, a true vision of beauty and brains. Until then, it was just me and Urt against the fog, battling our way back home, one uncertain step at a time.