October is the month when depression descends. Everything collapses in on itself like the twin towers in a cloud of grey. The malevolent mist slides across the heather through the pine forest to the clearing where I stand. So I walk into it and it walks into me. First it curls around my neck and then it slides across my shoulders until I’m soaked.To. The. Skin. I feel cold droplets skid down my skull, slide down the back of my neck and spine.
All sound is muted by fog ‘cept the odd peel of laughter from somewhere and the metalic stereophonic of distant black dogs barking. My breath feels separate from me. It overlaps itself. The fog swirls to the sky and collects in a colossal funnel web then collapses into my head. Everything changes. My eyes steam up from the inside. I am in the forest. The clearing. Lost.
I would like to have ended this blog post on “Lost.” but I can’t. Since I stopped smoking this condition has thankfully abated. I am no longer waiting on spring. Photo by Alan Stewart at Plymouth Book Festival Nov 1st.