Cold little fingers of memories best left untouched whip through my mind tonight. Accompanied by the whistles of an unsettled wind around the corners of my house they stalk me in the bleak darkness of January’s new moon. Ghosts made of powdered snow softly beating against the corners of my house, eager to claw their way into the peace, the ragged peace, I have fought too hard to take for granted. A peace which I will fight again to protect.
What they offer sounds like life and beauty, hope and survival. But I have seen a void behind the eyes of those who offer what they cannot truly give and I know life is not white and cold. Beauty is not still and silent. Hope is not weak and distant.
I am not alone in this battle that rages. I am not alone.