As the days turn cold…

I feel like cleaning, decluttering, doing away with the evidence of my past self. When it is 38°F and the land is covered in fog, I am trapped inside, staring at the necklace given to me long ago by someone who can no longer stand to look at me. I want it gone. And now it is.

I drink five cups of steaming tea each day: black, green, and chamomile, on rotation. I drink to get warm, but the second it is empty–no longer a fire in my hand–I am chilled again.

I feel depressed and think about death, how soon it will come for us all. It’s not a morbid obsession, but rather a fact that is often on my mind. At this time of year, there is no warm air or campfires or woodland hikes to make me feel that my stay on Earth may be infinite. My bones get cold, and my breath gets shallow, but there is no blush on my cheeks.

So, I must stay busy so as not to think too deeply. Thought is good, but not when you are still and longing for something that may never come.