The fog this morning left a lingering mist. The air damp and chill. In a few weeks time, Charlotte Bronte would write, if she were visiting this time and place, of the dangers of consumption.
But there is nothing so dramatic as a bard's visit here.
I am truly tired and withdrawn from thought or feeling or desire.
The sweetness of the mist this morning re-awakened something innate within me, briefly, and in that fleeting moment of breathlessness, the store of energy I had for today diminished like the expectations of a blind date after the door's been opened, and you know there will be no chemistry between the two of you.
I have swaddled myself unknowingly, and although I am not numb to all feeling, I am creased just so that only my corners are sharp enough to pierce the protective barrier.
I am aware of my simplest needs, and yet, unable to open up to seek them out in a world where the mist dissipates by noon.
If I were capable of opening just now, however, I'd write of a woman's words, that for only twenty-three minutes, made me warm.
But I think I should weep if I relayed happiness just now.