4...

strange dreams all last night. i can't remember any of them. it is a frozen morning. smoke then steam. fog in the forest. white grey sky. moss on the tress pointing North.

it is monday.
my nose runs.
it looks like rain.

yesterday i managed to wash a few dishes. i drew The Anonymous Girls on a book page. splattered their covered faces with ink. sighed. the house is a wreck. but it's not nearly as dreary as it sounds. it's warm in here. and safe too. i'll do my best today to feign health in small ways at least. feign life. it is monday already. and the sky gone white. stillness. and the counting, counting, counting...

i am big on the ritual this time of year:

i tell myself- it is time to look in the mirror. time to wash the smoke out of your hair. get the monster out. don't let it follow you in to the next year, little one. do the work.

i remember how excited i was this day a year ago. i absolutely believed that the changing of the calendar was a magical thing. that the new year would sweep through, a tremendous broom, and clear out all the old ghosts. take the webs out of my doors and i'd wake new year's day to find everything clean and bright and in it's right place. an eye-blink. corrected. proper. pure. i honestly did believe that.

and here we are again. the same day a year later. on the hinge on the new. but this time around i've built my own broom. i'm doing the cleaning myself. my own hands, my own pen and page, my canvasses waiting on the wall. sweeping, sweeping. slowly, slowly. but it is a sure thing. and i am still hopeful for some magic. i have new eyes this time. eyes that are able to see such things. and i know, for sure, what tools to use to clean my own slate.

be gentle with yourself.

i love you.

i'm not the only one.