The country is quiet, dark, the stars come out and your breath billows like clouds from your mouth. I wander through Victorian hallways, glide my finger along banisters a hundred and fifty years in the making: how small we are on this earth, how insignificant, and yet to us how much this brief moment in times matters because it is ours. What do you wish you had done with your sliver? Remember most things will outlive you.
The little hamlet prepares for Christmas and you get a brief respite, a moment of hot chocolate and familial small-town innocence, it’s a blessing. I know New York couldn’t protect me against all the pain of a life, I knew that, didn’t I know? Maybe I was just hoping it could soften the blow. You recognize the person in the mirror again, you got your brief upstate respite, got your fresh country air and your weeks or months or however long (it was hard to keep time, then, and didn’t seem necessary) in someone else’s shoes and oh didn’t you like how they fit after all.
You wonder what the bottom looks like and if you’ll know when you hit it.
How many times you have to hit it before you allow yourself to get back up.
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