Stillness of Snow

It is zero degrees and there is zero reason to do anything. I woke to the joy of fresh snow; a heavy blanket of cold crystal dust.

For the first time in a long while, I have no place to be; there is no place to report my time, which is my time. Forced, placid ground succumbs to the changing seasons and winter strides in unannounced. Like a Madussa, everything stops as temperatures plummet. The air is more than cold, it is a mood that lingers in a mirror dance with the sun, which is the only reprieve. Frigid temperatures remain, battling the will of the sun.

Sun filters through and brings an illusion of warmth. We have come a long way, yet so many months wait still, wrapped in the comfort of frozen time.

I do not watch much television these days and have found a reasonable balance. Doses of CNN have ceased, replaced with Aljazeera overnight. Apparently, a contract dispute has caused disruption. But it’s ok; weird, but ok. The news, the world as it is portrayed, solidly propels the human race toward certain destruction. The movie, Interstellar, reminds us of our vulnerabilities, while exploiting our capabilities to persevere. But that was an event, outside of the daily drone of a television. For me, classical music is what plums my airways.

But I am not afraid.

Instead, there is a mist that hovers over our town and the promise of an early season. The Cascades loom above, showing off their wild winter of majestic beauty. Monday is like a holiday where life slows to remember a purpose and thoughts of warm hearth stoves and soup; friends and family gather as community, laughing, and sharing.

In the morning, eyes will open as dreams of fresh tracks wane with the desire to experience gravity with the whole body.

Everything is inanimate in the calm of winter light. Not a breeze stirs, the air, while stagnant, is crisp and still. Nothing moves.

Spirit is vibrating.

Published by darren thompson

hello invisible people, I have lived well and continue to live well enough. I hope the same for you. Writing during a pandemic with catastrophic wildfires, hurricanes, economic collapse, political strife, and toxic air means one tends to be pretty sedentary. I am reminded of our last trip to Cartagena, Colombia and the gang of sloths hanging out in the trees. Funny, I don't think sloths are ever behind schedule though. The book, FALLEN, is near completion. I know I've said this before, but I am definitely in the final lap with it. Though, I have not settled on the publishing or marketing of it, yet. I am not even sure how I will use this website. Admittedly, I've been writing on this bit for the better part of ten years. My mind has been wrapped around some weird urban sci-fi-fantasy junk. Feels like a twisted premonition of what is happening today. On another creative front, I am setting up a new website called: vomitpages.com which I am kind of excited about. These are writings and ramblings and musings of life when I am out of the flow with writer's block. There projects within projects there. Oh, I live in the Columbia River Gorge of the PACIFIC NORTHWEST. My characters are way more interesting. thanks.

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