My hands freeze a little hanging laundry. The chickens are bunched together in patches of sunlight. Cup after cup of tea. The light cold and hard as a star reflected in quartz. The trail fades where it turns north and we are left in forest, studied by foxes.
We dwell mostly in conceptualized reality - a replacement built to obscure life. It is a way of thinking - a habit of thinking - and thinking can neither end nor - really - make contact with it. All problems are resolved in an instant or they are not solved at all! Moonlight makes the sky and we make the moon? Better in the end to just avoid words.
I return to this project chastened but intrigued. Can writing lead one through writing that has become needful to the point of claustrophobia? At its best it's not personal but reflective. Yet longing entered in a special way and the sense of space was diminished accordingly. I want you to be happy, too.
I write happily, blessed as always to not make too much of it. There are other projects, even other others if one wants to see it that way. In my dreams I recoiled in horror, lost in an old house in which an even older woman only wanted to be seen. Love has always frightened me, what little I have known of it. Endings are sad but life goes on, even this one.
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