I went walking tonight in the dark and the snow, the sound of it under my boots crashing back at me off the buildings like the memory of lovers past. I don't want to freeze like the world around me so I have put on a variety of cold-beating layers that have surely made me look a complete mess lacking the attractivness of an unmade bed. I am wearing one half of two pairs of my favourite gloves, each partner a victim to my travelling nature.
At least they are both blue
Snow is falling angel-feather soft from the bright-jewelled velvet cape of a goth goddess. If she wrapped me in her arms I would surely feel warm even as my heart froze for she whispers in my ear all the things my solitude needs to hear...or are they the voices of the lovers I have longed for and never known?
I want to be home now, to where the logs in my stove spit and crack and sigh as they are consumed by the flames they love to ignite. I need tea and alcohol and warmth; the sort of tea that is black and smokey and sweet; the sort of alcohol that hits deep; the sort of heat that only a huge chunk of iron can give.
I have created for myself too many things to do that keep me from writing the words of the stories that embroider my dreams, from the people that could be friends, from the friend that is my neglected lover, the lover that is my neglected friend.
And words.
They are my friends too; my friends and my tormentors. They scream into my ears, buzz around in my head, a swarm of bees in attack mode and then, when I try to rid myself of them, they change places with each other, running around on my electronic paper until they find the most crass and cliched and mundane form in which to portray me and betray me.
And yet.
I am a dog at the start of his year. Though it is winter the words are thawing. Though my life has been standing still the earth now moves beneath my feet; she breathes and purrs and becons me to her.
Put the kettle on and lift the bottle down from the shelf; I have an arm full of firewood and I'm coming home...
Ciao,
Albion.
