Skip to main content

Half-sick of shadows

I am sitting by a marsh, breaking my long silence in Winter Light.

I asked myself, what could I write that was worth reading? I still do not know, but I write now to record a moment.

Darkness has lain heavily on me, but here there is no darkness. I am sitting in winter light-- a cold, clear half-light that can never satisfy. I wonder why I always come here in winter, when it is so brown and dead. I guess I come here in the summer, too, but my feeling of acute longing for the place isn't the same.

I will confess my worries to the trees:

Health, which always submits to the passage of time.

Mortality, so transient. Death, intangible.

Purpose, which will drive me to madness.

Age, which is only imaginary.

Love, which will break me again and again.

I don't know-- I don't understand what it is you do. But I am here, and as soon as I find the way to you I will be there. Even though I don't understand anything-- not why life must be this way, why things fall as they do.

The wind is cold. The leaves are brown. The ground is wet, but this is no ball gown I'm wearing.

This is the place that has been made today. Tomorrow it won't be the same. Perhaps there will never be a marsh that looks like this again. That is the way the wetlands are.

But now I believe that everything is possible. I can feel the shadows of past places and I am there now, and I am the same. This is not me, but the girl who wandered woods who is fortunate enough to have a Treo in her hands to record her thoughts instantaneously to the world.

The lady is wandering the woods. I can smell the smoke from a travelling caravan. I can feel the restless excitement of the travellers. I want to be with them, not wandering in the woods alone.

What will I sell?

I want to sell my talents, not my patience. Not my hours of sunlight. Not my pride. I want something to want the craft wrought with these hands. I want to belong to myself every moment of every day.

I am telling you these secrets, trees. What should I do now?

Popular posts from this blog

New place

This is the second lunch I've passed in this downtown Barnes and Noble. I like this place. If I worked here I would undoubtedly come here for lunch. It is going to be hard forfeiting the hour and fifteen lunches, but normal life is less stressful than this. I am not cut out for city living. I still had driving troubles today. These one way streets are so difficult. I don't understand parking, and I like finding locations that I "cain't miss" from the road. Everything is so densely packed. Everyone else seems to have walked somewhere, but I celebrate lunchtime as the time to get as far away from the work as possble with as much comfort as possible, and Subway, I'm sorry, is not comfortable. Last night I slept from 7 p.m. to 5 a.m. when I had to call in. I have slept so much lately, but I feel in such a muddle. My head is pounding. If I were home I don't think I could put myself together enough to do any of my things. I really long to do things, too. Writing...

Gervaise

1789 Gervaise was the first one to enter Delphinia's bedchamber. Golden light spread through a crack in the white curtains, throwing a lacey pattern onto the silk-shrouded bed. Delphinia lay in the finest guest bedchamber in the castle. It had been converted from the room of the dowager Markgrafin upon her death. Though Gervaise's entrance was not quiet, there was no stirring in the midst of the great bed. Gently Gervaise laid down the tray of chocolate and great cinnamon rolls and approached the bed, pushing aside the curtain to view the prone figure there. Delphinia lay in a contorted state, her limbs drawn up against her protectively, looking like a frightened child, though she was in the depths of sleep. Her hair, dark-colored, the finer strands gilded and curling around her face and brow, was mangled, freed from its pins without a combing. She wore a loose white shift, no nightgown. Gervaise was not offended by disorder or carelessness, but Delphinia's disarray gave he...