Sunday, December 6, 2009

Unclothed, for once.

So, it's those times when you run out of wine and realize the immenseness of your dependency on it to adjust the dimensions of your gloom. Idiosyncratic gloom. The fullness of the wine in the glass tosses your securities. You know, the way your securities sometimes depend on the purpleness of the winter or the opaqueness of hope. There is an unstated, understood security I have come to find with the presence of wine in my house during winter. Before, I sought that security in the musky smell of my dogs’ bodies as they lay by my feet, sleeping but only narrowly so, always providing me with company as I sailed through the nocturne, all guarded.
I suffer a howling affinity for winter. I like the way it shuffles the order of things inside my carefully draped emotional demeanor. I seem to admire the fact that having wine becomes more of a physiological necessity than just some thoughtless guilty indulgence. The pseudo warmth works (almost) as a temporary substitute to the musky warmth I was otherwise used to. The dryness in the air is easy to associate with when you are replenishing a void. The early sunset makes dealing with the harshness of absence easy. The wait for snow will overshadow the other forms of longing meanwhile.
It becomes easy to long, watching the tiny specks of snow float effortlessly inside the glass globe. It is easy to swim deep into words and songs and poetries during this seasonal metamorphosis. Lyrical intensities don’t seem to fail you. Filled frames seem to do their job. Lowly burning flames on the side table seem to induce warmth of soothing magnitude. The hissing wind through the crevice of my window feels friendly too. Maybe I will let her unravel my robe. I can use a little sliver of winter inside my sealed house with depleting wine tonight. Inside my sealed skin with depleting strength.
When the hands go cold, the blood settles coolly in the center of the heart. Easy to heal. Maybe the skin of the heart grows thicker too. Easy to deal.
I will sail through this nocturne too, all seamless.

image source :

"I'll be your harvester of light, and send it out tonight, so we can start again.." - Winter Song, Sara Bareilles.

1 comment:

Happy Phantom said...

This was a tear-jerker....a beautiful prose on winter and the constant longing.