I thought I wanted to write something serious tonight, something about my emotions and how they move in a slow-dance around me, arm-in-arm, staring at me as I stand in the middle. They want me to move, to decide, to act, to do something, and yet, I sit, muted with the edges blurry.
I thought I wanted to write about what's bothering me. About the sadness that has pulled over me like a sheath--the sadness that rapes so slowly it won't be caught.
The evening sky yesterday was breathtaking. I didn't look up at the sky tonight. The ground felt shaky beneath my feet, and as I shivered on my walk home, I noted that they changed the quote on the sign in front of the Unitarian Universalist Church beside my house.
It reads:
Winter under cultivation is as arable as Spring. -Emily Dickinson.
I am through with winter, truly, even under the encouraging words of my poet-muse-friend, E. Dickinson; I cannot shake this feeling of being pressed down and empty. I need warm nights to walk through; where the silence is wide open, and solitude a subterfuge.