Leashes, Ornaments, and Eulogies
I’m really excited to get back into the den now that winter is creeping up the front lawn, rolling over the sidewalk and making its icy advance toward the windows and doors, seeking out weak spots in the insulation and sealant. If you look, right now, you can see it. Its many tiny hands are prodding and dancing around the window frames. It will find a way in and, once it has, the many gusts sent on reconnaissance will enter repeatedly for the next five months.
If you couldn’t tell by the end of ..Markakis, it’s become impossible for me to take myself seriously anymore. Call it a lack of confidence or a simple understanding of my dire mediocrity but attempts at furthering any literary project I once had hopes of finishing seem foolish.
The wind is not a solitary, isolated thing you know. Gusts, like swarms of fish or birds, sweep across the countryside as collected wraiths. Too small and quick for the mortal eye to perceive, they maneuver against all warmth as a retreating Sun forsakes all who depend on it for food and light.
Where I used to believe in the power of literature and it’s ability to inspire, I now harness a very real understanding that apathy is a comforting sentiment and not one shaken by someone with such a feeble ability to motivate. If you’re not touching someone at their deepest beliefs and emotions, then you’re writing pompous equivalences to flatulence. Unless of course, you recognize that you are someone who simply needs to exorcise the looney tunes within in order to enjoy a decent night’s sleep.
Heed the warnings children, whistled to you through the branches of trees once full of leaves. The wraiths come, heralds of stinging feet and numb fingers. Feel them on the back of your necks as you curl into bed, unable to cover yourself completely from the drafty window. There they dance and celebrate their reign, knowing that your every thought in the coming months will be to the discomfort they wrought.
This is my update.