slow moves in messy hair

Sleepy homesickness, slow moves in messy hair and woollen socks. The office on those silent last days of the year when Christmas is still in the air. Almost alone.

Fir trees in snow outside the window, shifting from dark to golden pink, to greyish white, to dusky blue, to dark again. Christmas lights, leftover chocolates. End-of-year statistics, last-minute shipments. Lonely colleagues between empty desks at the other end of the office. Lazy chats over mugs of coffee.

I'm reluctant to let go of glittering lights in dark snow, cinnamon scent, angelic voices, traditions of centuries, magic of millennia, Christmas in the North.

the accidental bombmaker

Things I brought to the recycling centre, probably causing speculation among the staff regarding my life choices:

1 rusty car exhaust pipe

10 injection needles (most of them used)

2 tiny capsules of butane gas

1 packet of painkillers

miscellaneous small electronic gadgets

I had just been clearing out some old junk at home. But while driving to the centre, I visualised a scenario where the ancient gas capsules exploded, turning the injection needles into deadly shrapnel, and wondered if anyone would believe that I hadn't actually intended to build a bomb.

melt into it

While others struggle with this winter darkness, I melt into it, gratefully. Books, sleep, heated blankets.

a shout into forever

“You mustn’t live so lightly, 

spin your stories, tell your tales. 

Let them dance across the oceans 

and set the wind upon your sails. 

For every truth found on your travels 

and in the pits of your despair, 

is a shout into forever 

of ‘I existed, and I cared!'”

-e.h