I don’t even know what this is, but I like the wording. Sometimes I just write to hear myself talk. 🙂

I’m in bed with the tiny things. Not organization or complex steps and process, but that thing that is a lot more subtle than this, that thing that lies under the finer details. A sideways flicker in an eye during conversation, the wavering tone of a word or a poor choice of word, a facial tick or wisp of cloud in the trees. Today I was walking along the frozen shores of Skaha Lake and a solitary leaf, deep red in colour, fluttered before me from a tall willow to the ground. The playground in winter was empty as you would expect, wrapped behind the mesh of a chain link fence, the swings rocking gently in the wind, gently in the wind, winter spectres of summer children holding fast to cold chains. The haunting echo of childhood laughter and joy tickled my imagination. It’s just the wind, I thought. It’s just the wind. And it’s just the lake ceaselessly moving, washing black as black in twilight. Headlights already dotting the far shore.

This insight is painful with anticipation. I read the signs and already know what you’re thinking, and I sit waiting for that shoe to fall while I sift through the more significant points in the sinking jetsam underneath.

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