I’m not held back by the lack of moonlight – the fireflies guide me even though I’m unnerved by their flutter. When the fireflies die, as they’re bound to – I’ll follow the sound of the Wolf and the trickle of the night river – streaming over land so cold and dense it sucks the life out of living things that lay on it. I’ll shiver in my armour against the rocks inside the cave. I’ll crawl through unending night to find a beacon no one believes exists until I reach it and set the fire.
our cold home
I remember when I found it difficult to come up with a good memory.
A strong one.
(You see, the thing is – bad memories had to be vivid for our survival, but to make a good memory stick, you’ve often got to make a deliberate effort.
Just an effort to look and feel and to take it in.
They’re gentler and may not be as forthcoming.)
I was supposed to be making a happy place to go to, for when things weren’t.
But you’ve got to build it calmly, so it absorbs the calm, then it can be a refuge in troubles.
I didn’t know how.
Where to start?
Things kept invading it – unpleasant ulcers on the landscape.
And I didn’t want to go there anymore because I had to keep building towers and forges and pits to protect myself.
She told me to just let the invaders do their own thing, they’ll go on their own,
Just don’t focus on them.
Make your safety, in your sky, in your sounds.
I find it helpful to think of myself as separate from my feelings and thoughts,
to think of them like the changing weather.
All I do is put on my coat if it gets cold and rainy.
It’s an experience, not my essence.
There was a slip of rainbow on my glass.
I let myself enjoy it.
I made a good memory.
The stripe went away when I moved my head, but I adjusted it and it came back, just slightly different.
I felt glad I beckoned it back and it came.
I’ll conjure up that glassy badge when I’m next feeling heavy.
It’ll calm me down to remember picking out the colours and to remember how I brought them back.