The days have been hard of late, in ways that occasionally escape my mind and then I recall what it is niggling the back of brain and make sense of myself anew. But I like those moments when I'm a mystery to myself and I have to unpack the world in order to get to the bottom of my own heart. And I think the brain is quite wonderful at covering up the crime scene of sadness.
I've been finding comfort in my neighbourhood. The days so far have been free of snow. And while this may seem like a travesty from a window-watching vantage, it lets me meander down side streets, picking a favourite, and then a favourite house, and then conjuring a little flight of fantasy in my brain.
I love to see wreaths on the doors or get a peek in the windows, seeing lights twinkle and blur behind old glass windows. And there's such stillness on the outside, rarely a person to be seen. Toronto has tricks up its sleeves for keeping its occupants hidden. Which conjures an even greater winter comfort inside those walls.
Until, eventually, I turn home, seeking my own.
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