Winter has come in the indigo November night. Tonight as the darkness so quickly stole upon me, I could feel the chill moving across my body, as if I were acknowledging in some secret part of myself that winter is here. It has been a grey week, the kind where mist seeps from the morning as if the dreams of night are crystallized, hovering in stasis until the white sun burns through the paper thin sky. I have longed all week so sit outside, to feel the bones of my body echoing the changing earth, to melt into the snows as if for a moment forget myself. The mornings are still for me a deep welling of connection, but once the day takes hold of me, that pull dissipates, much like mist scatters in the sun. It isn't until the sun has spent me that my thoughts turn again to sitting outside, to a longing that bites deep. All too soon my dreams cradle me to sleep, rocking my reality, pressing upon my longings until they explode from my silenced subconscious in vivid color.

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