The Isolation Journals
The walls emit a cold, light air and wildlife collected in jars and ceramic pots line the windows.
Dim lighting and candles cast dancing shadows onto facets around them and the silk hair of a fiddle emits a soft and somber tune that fills my ears.
I’m dancing now.
Ivy crawls up the enclosures and reflects off of the mirror as it would water in a stream. This is like no other place I've travelled to. The ground is soft..like soil under my toes and the solitude sinks in with each step I take..
I’ve yet to see any locals but they must wear masks. I’ve seen two since I’ve arrived.
I decide not to breathe so deeply now.
Where are you? How did I get here and why can’t I leave?
I don’t want to leave.
A pale wind enters through the cleft in the window and brushes me off of my feet
but the ground is dusted in pillows and a fabric so soft that I only bump my arm on a small rock.
No, a book.
I stay there and hours pass before my weary eyes look up from the sorrow-filled pages and days before lucidity returns.
I draw a deep breath and I am in my bedroom. An old journal resting comfortably in my palm.
I am present and no longer licking last year's wounds.