• Mac

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.

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