Maybe it’s the mist.

The morning air was thick with haze. I sat outside during my break squinting against the glare of winter sunlight turning the bricks that pave the courtyard into a luminous golden mosaic spreading outward in rings. On days like this when the air is dense with moisture, everything looks like it comes from a storybook. By day the mountains are fairytale mountains enchanted with mist. By night the distant pinpoints of light give the impression of an alien mothership hovering on the distant horizon, tethered to the earth by the brilliant thread of highway lights cutting across murky darkness.

Excuse me if I’m waxing poetic.

Some days you bang your head against writers block for hours without ever making a paragraph’s worth of progress, and then other days you find yourself writing ten pages in a sitting. Today was the latter sort of day. I’m not sure where this shower of inspiration particles came from, I’m just glad that I was in the right place and mindset for it to cross my mind. 

Whatever the reason, I’m relieved to have the muse upon me, if only for a little while. Never does one feel more at the mercy of the capricious, small, gods than when inspiration is elusive. 

The price of this good fortune, however, seems to be the price of my sole. No, I didn’t spell that wrong: I discovered, through a sudden sensation of coldness through the toe of my sock, that the sole of my left boot has split away from the upper and is now gapped open like a wide toothless mouth. The toe of a proper hobo boot. Alas. On the other hand, I don’t think that it’s anything that can’t be fixed by the judicious application of glue.  The boots are only a year old, surely there’s still plenty of good mileage in them.


~ by Gwydhar Gebien on December 14, 2016.

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