My muscles have begun to atrophy.
I must prepare for battle again.
almost lost, now found
I’ve been outrunning the hunters for so many moons now that I thought I lost my journal in the woods. I’m so tired and my mind is thick with fog, but I found I had the sense to hide it in the hollow of an old oak and bury it under dead leaves.
I feel full again to have it pressed against my chest, sapping my heat from me for all the dearness of this life.
in the heart of winter
I let one bone aching moment pass by . . .
lake night
Ripples in the dark surface of the water. A fish darts by. A gleam of silver, then stillness.
I take out my knife. Trace the carvings along the hilt. Let it glint in the moonlight as I pass it from hand to hand.
It’s nights like these I wish I had it in me to kill a fish. But they’re too much apart from this world, too sacred. It would be like shooting an arrow at God.
forest of the dead
Legend says that they planted books in the soil here. And from these books, the trees grew. And from the trees, the forest. It is said that the forest was made from the dead words of the poets of old, whose voices still whisper to us on the wind. Mournfully, vengefully, compassionately. I hear them as I go out to hunt now, their words humming in the silence. I still hear you, I tell them. But there is no one to answer.
sweaters and woolen socks
Warmth is wanting here. Sometimes, when the coal has burned low or the wood has become damp, I dream of the forest aflame. Just to imagine the heat waving off it, the feel of it sweeping flush against my body.
I wish my hands were as good for knitting as they were for hunting, but they’ve grown too rough and callused for that delicate sort of work. A thick sweater or a good pair of socks can make all the difference here. Still, I have layers of cloth wrapped around my feet, tucked into my good hunting boots, and an old grey sweater hanging about my torso. Something I’d traded for at the black market in town. And, of course, I have my faithful leather jacket, a warm chestnut color that still hasn’t faded since the day I found it.
These are the things that keep me alive. These are the things I live for.
cold hands
It’s cold here. The forest is dead, with frosted brown leaves on the ground. My hunting boots, worn and soft, crunch with every step. I miss the fog of your breath in the distance. I pull my bow taught until it feels as if my own sinews will break, then release, thinking of the warmth of your body pressed against mine. The feeling in my fingers is gone, and so are you.
ordo ad chaos
Order out of chaos. Do you know what that means? It means that every time we generate order, we generate more disorder. From order, we breed chaos. There is nothing, no word that can’t be changed in its meaning if it’s spun a different way. There is no truth to anything, whether you think this way or not.
Does that frighten you?
alteregoistical 