I have not been able to share words in this place, and that has thrown me off. I haven't been writing in my journal, either. All the time I have spent not writing has made room for me to notice everything around me more closely.
Maybe not writing is the secret to having something to write? Probably not.
I want — no, I need — to write again.
There are hundreds of little moments, thoughts, impressions, smells, and sounds rolling around in my mind, clamoring to get out. But when I sit here, in this borrowed time, I can not put words to them.
Except for this...
I stand in my doorway. The cold of air conditioning hits my back, making me shiver. Outside it is warm. Not hot or stifling, which is strange for the end of May, but it is not cold either. The warmth sinks into me slowly.
The dark, low-hanging clouds block out the sun. I can smell the approaching storm.
The rain does not start slowly. All at once a deluge of water pours from the sky. The wind pushes it sideways before it has a chance to reach the ground. Stray drops reach all the way to me, standing in my doorway.
The drops are not cold, but they suggest cold to my brain. I am suddenly more aware of the air coming from behind me, and the shivers return.
The air smells clean. Fresh. Not at all wet or musty, but I know the must will set in as soon as the rain stops. There is a small window of perfect rain smell, and I've caught it.
It is strange to stand in this place. The line between hot and cold, in and out, wet and dry. I am the line. One step forward or back, and I can be fully one - hot or cold, in or out, wet or dry. But I am transfixed.
I am in the middle. I am the line.
And on the line, as in life, I stand unmoved.