a scribble of jo

One in the morning and you look out at the lake. Vast, immense–at this time of night it seems as if it could go on forever. Much like wayward thoughts that have been waiting for you to drop your guard to make their assault. And assault it is. Thoughts you have managed to keep at bay, managed to dutifully ignore or minimize–they arrive now, whispers that hum through your blood and beckon you awake. You turn on your computer, try to numb yourself with the emptiness of social networking sites; you turn on your phone, consider texting a stranger friend, but no, there is no safety. These whispers have waited the whole day for this, for you to be alone, and they are too persistent, too right, to be set aside now. Whispers that say

The man at the autoshop had hands like your grandfather’s–grease under the fingernails, in the creases of his knuckles. Even though you resisted checking, you would bet money that he had callouses on his palms that matched the hand you held as a child.

The Dog Stars made you sad because, unlike the protagonist, you have lost just the same but without the excuse of a dystopian apocalyptic disease to take your loved ones.

Maybe Rilke is right, that “perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.” But if Rilke is right about the dragons, then what would he make of the princesses?

Winter has never been kind, and November was just the beginning.