Misted

The fog crept in early, remains of dinner still spread out over the table. He put logs in the fire, sparks and smoke billowed out of the chimney, with their own life and their own business. The sauna was ready.

Hours later, every ounce of sweat silently run out of every pore, I lay alone in the quiet guest house, clinging tragically to one bar of cell phone service, trying desperately to keep up with the goings-on of the "real world".

A weekend in the country should lower my pulse, heighten my senses. But I am numb to the immediate beauty of nature, the smells of the forest, the cacophony of birdsong in the trees.

Last night runs quickly through my veins, still, the beat of the city heart. It is me, now. I sleep better to the sounds of the streets, I rest. This silence only tries to remind me of the dreams I no longer have.