Something has been off for too long now. I’m still waiting for something to settle.
I can feel it there on the edge of the days. Something like a dream that is only brushing against consciousness.
A lingering mood, disconnected and undefined by circumstance.
The snowbells are up. And I have to remind myself that it is still January. We haven’t seen a flurry of snow this year.
But these too-light days are scattered over a heavy world in a kind of disconcerting flurry.
Wait. To wait is an oxymoronic. An action that is inactive. Or an action turned inward, really.
How do Beckett’s clowns keep from ripping one another apart?
The snowbells aren’t waiting. They’re sacrificing – in hope or in ignorance – a bit of themselves. Small, pretty partial-suicide. I suppose they can’t help themselves, tiny clowns. It’s all show and desperation.
Along the trail someone has carved a heart into one of the pines. It’s weeping in the glare of my headlamp.
That’s an overwrought metaphor before I even begin typing.