Through my cracked window, a breeze sweeps my skin, gently cathartic. My skeletal thoughts linger. The remnants of the year lie in a pile of dust in the corner, uncermonious and untidy.
It was a year of yearning-that that rattling ache in my spirit. The slippery days could not be grasped. I watch them disentegrate as a warm light leaps playfully onto the floor.
But the growing shadows around me are stiffly resolute-the darkness of the inevitable night ahead threatens the placid warmth. I am bombarded. The future is looming, and all I care to do in this moment is drown in light.
I don't want to think about any of it, in this moment, in my bedroom, in the late afternoon light, so I stare at the pile of dust in the corner, and let the warm light wash over me like a baptism.