Solitude

Monk by the Sea

Monk by the Sea by Caspar David Friedrich (1809-10)

 

The past few weeks have flown by so fast. It’s hard to believe it’s going to be March in a couple of days.

Today I feel a bit off centered. Dark clouds are looming overhead; the air feels lighter, less sticky, and yet I find no comfort breathing it in. I sat outdoors for a while, waiting for the rain that still refuses to wash over the pulsating streets. I sat by a tree, peering between the bars of the garage’s gate, and observing the nearest street corner. All is quiet. Not a soul in sight. Even the shadows have blended together; nothing stands out in the filtered light. The branches of the banana tree are wilted and parched. They’ve given up their color to the tropical and depleting weather of the past week. The day reminds me of early autumn. Darker days are coming.

I think I may have forgotten how to hope or even what to hope for. Fatigue is settling in my bones again. Balance is hard to achieve on days like this. I feel like a fertile ground for emotions to run wild. I do not possess the energy nor the desire to trim or uproot. I passively watch them take over the terrain.

Nothing pours out of my hands. Poetry and reason have left my side. I feel depleted, spent, dispersed. I’m going back to sleep. Maybe I can make space for myself again when I awake.

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