The sky is crisp and clear, and the stars are scattered throughout up above. I crane my head up to the night sky, keeping in my line of sight the tops of the trees, with diminishing leaves, along with the sky. Slowly and deeply, I inhale and exhale, watching the visibility of my own breaths. It is quiet outside, except for the light sounds of dog feet grazing in the grass as they sniff about, doing their business. It’s chilly outside, but I do not feel cold, being sufficiently clothed, dressed in layers, wearing gloves. Breath, after breath, I watch my breaths take shape, and vanish into thin air. And then I realize that the dogs are done, and I should probably go inside, and curious to why I feel so compelled to write about it.
Maybe because it’s because I’m not doing Nanowrimo this year, or maybe it’s that I’ve got a lot of jumbled thoughts swirling around in my own head that even I can’t comprehend just yet that is seeking some sort of expressive outlet. Or maybe it’s the three pints of Guinness talking. Who the fuck knows, but it still feels really solitary out there, sometimes.
