I drift away from the present as the second death of wood burns new life into my weighted conscious. My eyes lose focus on anything present as flames lick the logs whose bark lost its footing two seasons past, and I receive a much-needed respite from counting heartbeats.
I've reached the age where having history outweighs blind discussion of plans for time not yet arrived and it makes me want to cry. My hair smells of burnt wood tonight, and I want to shed tears for years past and childhood gone and for the fear of Sir Isaac Newton's plain six words.
But I have my indigo ink and I have my pages graced with all that inspires and all that is mundane. Those still blank will patiently wait for me to live through this winter to seek their healing and the passing of a year particularly not known for joy.
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