I was a hermit in another life. Probably in the life before that too. Left to my own devices, I would cover the windows to spend the day between books, ink, and paint. When the sun goes down, I’ll take my walks in peace and come back to my hut for a beer and another book.
It’s how I’m programmed. In the daytime, people seem to care (way too much) about how often I mow my lawn. They seem to care about how the bulbs in my flower bed now writhe and crawl over each other like drunkards at a frat party. They jump at the chance to stop a quiet walk to talk about nothing.
Nothing. Small talk. A smile does the same thing, a wave. Then you’re back to your own world.
But, you can’t write about a world you don’t take an effort to live in. I’ll give in to proper lawn maintenance before I become the window poet, writing the same twenty lines about the train, the hill, the bird I see as I sit at my desk.
I have to live to write.
I slide my feet forward in the white snow, driving my own path through the tops of trees. The baskets of the snowshoes are holding me on the leaden clouds as I look around me at pure pure silence.
“Wow.” my wife breathes next to me.
“This is perfect.”