Letter
Dear Benjamin,
How are you? I miss you and I have been hearing your voice in my head these last few days.
The dawn is painting the sky prussian blue just outside my window, and I still haven't managed to get back to sleep. My body is tired, what with a flu and all, and endless trains run through my head - I tried concentrating on one thought at a time and so far nothing has worked.
The days have been sunny and beautiful, but very, very cold. There is again snow on the handrail on the fire-exit out the kitchen window, but only a centimetre and not more. I don't mind the cold much - you know how much I love the snow - except when I find myself walking in the wind. The wind gets much too intimate, it sneaks under jackets and hoods, in the miniscule gap between the your gloves and the ends of your sleeves. But I think I have learned the trick on concentrating on something else, and for moments at a time, I can almost forget.
I said to someone just the other day, "Loving life is not the same as choosing death" but I didn't think he understood.
Two nights ago, I dreamed that I own a very old barn. So old that all the paint has faded, and everything is grey except the edgings around the doors which have become a pale blue. Now, this is not very barn-like, but there are many doors along the walls lengthwise of the place. I don't know what lies behind them, but I feel that they lead to other places. Up in the loft, there is a dining table with an empty bottle of red wine that has been knocked over on its side, and oddly enough, a small beehive buzzing with bees.
Michael was in my dream and he was telling me that I ought to sell the place, but I wasn't sure about that. I think I just wanted a place to go home to.
I hope Aunty Juliet is in better health and your ankle isn't hurting anymore. Do write soon, I'm anxious to hear from you.
much love,
steph
21 January 2003, Wednesday, 5:37 AM
Alter ego of dandruff
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