Ruffles of emotion barate my chest, these days when time slows from the cold. The strides rhythmic as I simmer in the golden hues of the last fallen leaves. Winter is coming and the edges on my breath remind me to enjoy looking at the browned earth. Just the other day I was sending love letters to everyone, parcelled through the air and made up of thought, I was overflowing with warmth. Then the days when I am seeking, scrounging faces of strangers for light, for some release from heaviness. I am nowhere near where I want to be in my head, the traversing of energy up and down, trying to remind the witness to be witnessing. Observation so much safer than immersion, that subjection to emotion, to becoming a moment or a victim of circumstance. I am only what I want to be, what I want. Closing my eyes, I watch the patterns of color roll, residual images fade into imaginative elaborations. Turning it inward, no more pretending, raw rampage of pure sorrow and the reward of acceptance, a little more respect for my broken self. It’s alright, to not know what to do, to feel like the darkness is thick and just might win. For awhile. It comes around and I am on the verge of laughter, my splintered soul dissolving into playful nature. These brutal battles so short and tender. It will pass, and the love letters will return, bigger and brighter than ever, enough light for everyone facing their minute darkness, traveling their inner doubts. Its all relative, and I remember this eventually, when I am quiet enough to hear it.