[As always, a private entry.]
It is cold.
My cloak is threadbare, the yellow flames in the fireplace do nothing to fill the room with warmth. The frost covers the windows, concealing the outside world.
I am not lonely.
Late last night I walked in the wet snow, though the sky had long since ceased its frigid weeping. My mind was cluttered with frenzied thoughts -- it was impossible to commit a coherent sentence to paper. I breathed in the chilled air, so cold that I felt my lungs would freeze. I journeyed in the slush, the warm glow of the watchful moon my only companion.
It was under the same loving moonlight that I spotted them, a distance away from me, on the corner of the road. I halted there in the slush, concealed by the shadow of a building. It must be shameful, perhaps voyeuristic, but I watched them.
They were oblivious to the world around them, as is the wont of two lovers. They twirled in the snow, danced in it, laughing and always touching. She was not particularly lovely, he was not particularly handsome, but who am I to judge? They did not seem to notice the freezing weather, did not seem to notice their observer enthralled by their merriment -- as I was at that moment. He lifted her and spun her around. He called her "my sweet." She laughed and hugged him. She called him "my dear."
I am not lonely.
I leaned against a wall as I watched them, as if I were some naive child to whom such acts of affection were alien and unknown. A smile may have crept up on my lips, but I do not know now. He paused breathlessly and from some concealed place revealed a small box. She too halted, though in surprise, and after a moment she laughed in delight, taking his reddened cheek into her hand. He opened the box for her, though I could not see what it contained. She moved his hand to close it again. She hugged him. He kissed her.
Their lips met under the cold moonlight.
They walked off together, his arm around her waist, her head resting against his shoulder. A gust of wind flew past, pushing the clouds before the moon. The night was dark, then. I had been abandoned.
. . . . I am not lonely.
I returned home. I had lost all desire to write -- what right had I to compose anything concerning love? It would have been a shameless parody at that point, a meaningless echo.
. . . I . . . I am not. . .
I do love. Perhaps it is shameful, perhaps some ancient god would be disgusted to know of my hidden affections. I do love.
Perhaps. . . I am. . . just a bit. . .
My cloak is threadbare, the yellow flames in the fireplace do nothing to fill the room with warmth. The frost covers the windows, concealing the outside world.
I am not lonely.
Late last night I walked in the wet snow, though the sky had long since ceased its frigid weeping. My mind was cluttered with frenzied thoughts -- it was impossible to commit a coherent sentence to paper. I breathed in the chilled air, so cold that I felt my lungs would freeze. I journeyed in the slush, the warm glow of the watchful moon my only companion.
It was under the same loving moonlight that I spotted them, a distance away from me, on the corner of the road. I halted there in the slush, concealed by the shadow of a building. It must be shameful, perhaps voyeuristic, but I watched them.
They were oblivious to the world around them, as is the wont of two lovers. They twirled in the snow, danced in it, laughing and always touching. She was not particularly lovely, he was not particularly handsome, but who am I to judge? They did not seem to notice the freezing weather, did not seem to notice their observer enthralled by their merriment -- as I was at that moment. He lifted her and spun her around. He called her "my sweet." She laughed and hugged him. She called him "my dear."
I am not lonely.
I leaned against a wall as I watched them, as if I were some naive child to whom such acts of affection were alien and unknown. A smile may have crept up on my lips, but I do not know now. He paused breathlessly and from some concealed place revealed a small box. She too halted, though in surprise, and after a moment she laughed in delight, taking his reddened cheek into her hand. He opened the box for her, though I could not see what it contained. She moved his hand to close it again. She hugged him. He kissed her.
Their lips met under the cold moonlight.
They walked off together, his arm around her waist, her head resting against his shoulder. A gust of wind flew past, pushing the clouds before the moon. The night was dark, then. I had been abandoned.
. . . . I am not lonely.
I returned home. I had lost all desire to write -- what right had I to compose anything concerning love? It would have been a shameless parody at that point, a meaningless echo.
. . . I . . . I am not. . .
I do love. Perhaps it is shameful, perhaps some ancient god would be disgusted to know of my hidden affections. I do love.
Perhaps. . . I am. . . just a bit. . .