Perhaps it is the bleakness of a city cloaked in gray filthy fog that has dampened my spirit and made my soul long for home.
Perhaps it is the realization that coming back to the city of my birth does not have the same significant heft as staying in the mountains with the people I love.
Perhaps it is just the fickle side of me awakening and realizing that the only creatures that I talk to whenever I am home are two stray cats who have found refuge on the window ledge of my kitchen.
So this is how loneliness looks when personified.
No wonder others find comfort in the thought of being stashed snugly in a box buried six feet under because, at least, there they are amongst others buried in the same depth as they are, in boxes having more or less the same dimensions as the ones they are in.
Food for worms. But sharing other (dead) people’s company.
Forgive me for such morbid thoughts.
I am here tapping away at three in the morning in the midst of another storm that will bleed the headlines with the headcount of those who have gone missing or dead tomorrow morning.
I long for wood fires and the warmth of someone beside me in the dead of the night… Not the cool chill of impersonal rain and gray walls and slick black asphalt and the hiss of raindrops threatening to break through the roof in the next maelstrom.
Ten more months.
Five if I can wrangle it.