The scent of hyacinths, like a fresh, spring mist, floats in from the window; the South Wind, washing through the room, drifts in from the fireplace – damp and useless from the morning shower. The early frost and cold push their way through the covers of my blanket: my candles, quivering; my books, shivering. My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter, and I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots outside.
This was the not the first of their appearances, these intrusive forces. They arrived by moonlight two nights ago, and have insisted to stay on the terms of ‘comforting’, objectives of ‘supporting’ my newfound grief.
“Make your house our inn,” they whispered in my sleep.
Chilled, I relented.
But inns are not residences, I dare say.
Nature stays with me – thinking to do more good than harm. Yet it is wrong. So wrong! I know they wish me recovery, but I cannot help but ail even more in such a presence. So what should I do? Mortal and flawed, what could a man like me do?
Should I hurry them out?
Disregard nature’s convalescent gift and continue to dwell on a black evil I should rather not?
The more that is asked of me, the more I cannot give.
Perceive me – puppet in abeyance – marionette in stock clothing – and comfort someone who can feel it.
Your morning frost is not the only thing that has numbed me.
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