Saturday, November 2, 2013


I used to think it would be so lovely to live far away, maybe in the mountains, maybe in the woods, or on a lonesome cliff near the sea. These images are used all the time in stories and movies, fairy-tales and make-believe. I'd sweep my porch and bake some bread (idyllic much? why yes!) and cuddle with my kitties, and read in the late afternoons, drinking hot chocolate. I'd stoke the fire in the evening, and close the windows against the dark. There'd be a lovely little garden, and perhaps a stream would cut through the property, gurgling to me, and telling secrets as it passed. But, maybe not so much. I've got the lonely eyrie house for the weekend (wood floors, granite countertops, custom ironwork on the staircase and all) and while it is very pleasant, I miss the bustle of my own small home. Perhaps it is only because this place is not mine, with things that are mine in it. Or perhaps it is that I am not build for the solitary life. The quiet here, it is so exacting. It makes me think of horror stories. And with Halloween just past, and the world starting to slumber for the winter, I think it is a perfect time to let this atmosphere foment in my brain.

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