Morningside

I wander the rooms of the house on Morningside in my mind. When I am sad, or angry, or stressed, or lost. I watch my feet sinking into the think wool carpet, feel the acorns crunching beneath my fear as I run across the yard. I settle into the chair in the master bedroom at night, a fire crackling as I look out over the yard, watching the snow fall. I wander through the original rooms of the house, looking at the objects that fill the shelves.

I am alone in the house, it lives only in my memories now. I sit in the conservatory, the lights chasing away the night that presses in from outside, the plants growing to the glass ceiling pains, the moss soft on the stones, the brook babbling as the goldfish swim in the pond.

Did't feel like writing today, but pushed through and did any way.

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