I did not know how empty I was until I saw this field in front of the river. It should be covered with snow and ice, asleep under a wintry onslaught and unable to show me its appalling condition. But it is not covered with snow and ice. It should be hidden, suffering in silence, but it is not hidden. It should leave to the imagination secret hopes and dreams, but it cannot do that. There should be a blanket of white concealing what we cannot face, but there is not.
 |
| Lost in limbo. |
It is not in the season of birth. It is not in the season of growth. It is not in the season of reproduction and
decline. It is not even in the season of
death. It is just stuck somewhere in a
strange limbo, a limbo that is cold and wet and grey, a limbo that is isolated
and forlorn. Its skeletons are fully
exposed, and its hopes and dreams of fleshing out are lost. They have nowhere to go and hide so that they
might plot and plan. They are naked and
struck down.
I know I am affected by the seasons, as are we all, but I did
not realize just how much. Now I am
paying attention. Now I am waiting to be
thrust into the overdue season. And I am
waiting and I am waiting. Yet still, we continue
to wait in this exile, in this limbo.
The Lord of Winter, whose drums even now are heard in the
dark of the night, has not shown his face.
I know that he will, but for now he relishes the many voices that cry
out his name. “Do they not usually curse
me?” he smiles to himself. “Do they not
usually fear me? Or at least loathe
me? Are they, then, secret lovers of the
Bringer of Destruction after all? Will
they beg for death?” he smiles to himself.
“All in good time.”
I did not know how empty I was until I saw this field in
front of the river.
