A kiss on your molten eyes

I can’t seem to find the motivation to write here anymore. Which is strange, because for a period that was all I wanted to do. Write everything here.

It’s Christmas soon, and I’m back home. This house is printed in my feet, even when I walk backwards. There’s no snow, but there’s so much frost that it almost looks like it. And fog. Which makes the world a white place anyway. I have way too many books to read, but that’s okay. I even chose some of them myself.

Winter trees are perhaps the most beautiful thing I know. And I love this half light they live in, that the sun is barely there and the shadows all askew. I like it until everyone burst into the kitchen, all of them trying to tell me something at the same time, and I want to scream, because how can they talk about such boring things now, why can’t we all just be quiet and look out of the window.

I think I will make caramels tomorrow. I love making Christmas candy. And my grandmother turns eighty-six today. I hope she’ll be here for several more years because there’s still so much we haven’t talked about. Sometimes we talk all day.