December. Another year coming to a close.
A few years ago, I welcomed in the first sunrise of the new year in a remote cabin tucked in the high sierras, steam from hot cider and heated breath rising through the cool morning light.
Beneath those snow-laden pines, I watched the first sunrise of my twentieth year of life, pouring resolutions into a faded green notebook.
While the notebook was abandoned, its verses long forgotten, the aura of the words remain. The intersection of that frostbitten, naive January day. Standing at the crossroads of nostalgia and possibility.
It is moments such as these, seemingly insignificant when lived, which later weave the tapestries of our existence.
Now, I find myself, once again, in another December. This time, capturing the crossroads with intention. Embracing the notions of the experienced and the impending.
Here are a selection of December Musings.
A few of the crossroads I’ve written, both abstract and observed, in the final days of 2017.
This piece is an excerpt from a longer work I wrote this December, in an attempt to turn the hourglass.
With Me (I Carry an Hourglass)
As a girl, they said to me, if I did just as I was told- if I pressed my thumb to my index finger, cupping my palms together so not a crevice would show- I could hold the ocean in my hands.
And each time the sea spilled from the spaces between I learned
the ocean cannot be tamed.
Never revered the hourglass, the urgency of action transposed by slowly shifting sands-
How humans choose to live as if life is a race to be won, an impending deadline to be met-
When I can feel every version of myself,
stirring, within my frame-
brazen 8 and pensive 13 and enamored 16 and ingenuous 18 and inquisitive 20…
while shifting 23 perches on my shoulder, reminding me that what exists now is not all which will be tomorrow.
With me, I carry an hourglass, resting on its side.
With me, I carry an ocean.
The turning of a tide.
Sometimes, it’s fun to play around with some classic Shakespearian-inspired romance. A male writer’s confession of unrequited love.
She is honey, adrenaline, a summer storm,
And in your arms, you will keep her warm.
Caress her cheek, catch the softness of her lips,
While I, a man less favored by fate, am paralyzed with envy.
Admiring, from a distance, the feathers of her angel wings,
Slipping one into my quill pen.
Your lover is my muse,
This Goddess, whom you so fortunately embrace,
Will live, immortal, within my verses.
How I long to return to the days in which
I was a blind man, never laying eyes upon her radiance.
Now I am awakened,
A besotted man,
If I were a desert, she is my rain,
The lines between my novel calling her name,
Perhaps, if she reads them,
She will glimpse the ghost of my love,
I may dip my fingers into her soul,
Swim through the color of her eyes,
Trace her silken cheek through gilded teardrops,
Evoke from her laughter, the trill of a symphony.
If only for a moment, my unrequited love may feel the warmth of my embrace,
Through the beauty of a world I constructed with my pen,
Forevermore, she will remain, my star-crossed muse.
Wrote this piece in early December, inspired by six words, followed by the sound of silence.
The Sound of Silence
Isn’t it strange, how we process words?
Filling us with elation, exuberance. Love, lust. Hopelessness, heartache.
If actions speak louder than words, tell her, why- hair disheveled, morning light filtering through the curtains, eyes still heavy with sleep, particles of dust dancing through the air, seated on the edge of his bed, bare feet barely touching the cherry wood floors, crimson bed sheet still draping her waist, wearing his white button down …
Silence sounded an awful lot like shouting.
The type of silence in which one is suddenly hyperaware of everything at once.
The quickened pace of her pulse. A lump, caught in her throat. The thump of her heart as it dropped into her empty stomach, twisting into a knot. A gentle stream of tears, fighting to be kept behind her eyes.
The world plays in slow motion. She can hear the rustle of the sycamore tree outside the window. A car, speeding down the street, Sweet Caroline, playing on the radio, the clatter of pots and pans next door, a dog barking, sparrows chirping while they dance through the December sky, church bells ringing in the distance.
Underneath it all, she can hear the silence. It fills every space in the room. Carving a void; ravaged, raw.
Sketches of the silence and the spaces in between.
Thanks for reading!
x. Natasha Overin