Winter. Cold, bleak, grey. Outside the air is heavy with lazy breath rising through the cold. Sound carries well through the thick air of winter. Nothing else seems to get through. Nothing.
The warmth of bed and pillow seem all that matters. Not the brace of a run on a frozen blue morning. Not the thrill of a walk with footfall crunching the icy ground below. The promise of comfort food is empty.
The cold has taken hold of me this year. I can not embrace it.
I don’t like to complain. The thought of voyeurism stops me from writing some days. So instead of saying what is happeing I write nothing.
Words tapped out on the keyboard. Shallow nothings while inside my head the words I really want to write bang noislessly against each other. It’s crowded in there.
I need to run. Need. The fog of flu is lifting finally. Soldering on may not be what the doctor ordered, but it is what I did. I’m not asking for sympathy or a medal. We all soldier on. Family and work are commitments not a hobby.
I need to write. Need. Words, like a good run are part of my make up. It seems winter has sent my words to slumbering hibernation. They raise sleepy, heavy lidded eyes occasionally, but I can not grab hold of them before sleep takes them back again.
I could whisper write the words. The ones that bang most often. Jumbled up like scattered magnet pieces on a fridge. But then you see, readers, there would be hints at what I will not write. There would be comments and declarations of hang in there and it will all be fine. There would be stories of support. There would be naughts for hugs and crosses for kisses. And I don’t need them. I just need the words to come out of my head. Spilt out on the page. Spent, tired, words.
So I will type. Tap away and write it out. That’s what they say to do; the great mystery mass of they. Just write. So I am. I will. I did. And now, now I will run.