follows the holidays.  

It started tonight, or rather I began to notice, the sparsity of colored lights.  

Every night a few more homes packed up the ornaments of festivities to sit in the attic for another year.  I was driving home from work when it happened.  Alone, clutching the wheel, My essence felt open and, I, so precisely alive.  It’s astounding that overwhelming feeling of content: Uninspired and consuming, intense yet definitively tethered to it’s definition, such an intriguing disparity, my favorite dichotomy.  

Could it be the barren part of winter that’s set me right?

When everything in sight gains a frosty look like a chilly window in the morning.  Where the sky, for the most part, is consistently gray and the air grazes you with a vacancy that shakes your bones but seems cleaner, fresher, like life will begin a new.  And it will.  

The barren part of winter is right before the spring.  The barren part of winter resets the year.  The barren part winter wipes everything clear.