Dusk. Early. The winter light is short. For all the talk of climate change, it's damn cold outside. Notwithstanding the ice on the inside of the windows, I've got my one room at a reasonable temperature. The floor is frigid but the moccasins keep the toes warm.
The soup that's on the stove will warm the rest of me. Hopefully.
I turned the lights out in the apartment hours ago but now it's getting hard to see.
I'm restless. Energy that's dying to be used but.. I'm just so unsure where to place it.
I keep looking for some kind of feeling besides the sadness. But nothing is waking me up from this slumber of sorts.
Restless slumber
Purpose. I remember purpose. The feeling of knowing exactly what I wanted, who I wanted, where i wanted... What I wanted?
All for naught.
And so the cold fingers write. Trying to get me somewhere.
How I long for the warm sun and the summer grass.
And purpose.