There are nights at the beach that the fog gets so thick that I can’t feel my own heart beat. It creeps in slowly and settles in aggressively like a bad cold, waiting to steal any zest for life that may be lingering. I’ve always thought of the thick misty air as a manifestation of the unsettled feeling I have in my bones when winter comes, however, this unsettled feeling comes with just the slightest amount of reluctant excitement.
Now is the time for cozy, is what I think over and over again as I struggle to see the old man across the street, obscured by the blanket of haze, waiting for the bus.
I long for and am repelled by the damp evenings of winter because, along with the dampness, stillness comes. And stillness has always represented my longing for movement. To clean every nook and cranny in my house. To clear out all the unknowns that lurk in my chest. To wipe away all the things that aren’t necessary and burrow down under a blanket until the sun shines again and I no longer have an excuse to bury myself in eerie silence.
Mind the Chilly,
Hyacinth Hunker Down