Sanctum Sanctorum

(Originally written: September 18, 2019)

Frosty air that spreads tiny bits of ice into your lungs, chilling you from the inside. Your green, icicle-laced, surroundings provide a clear brightness that moistens your eyes and saps away the weariness with every passing second. A stillness so profoundly silent you can hear the scratch of wool on skin when you put your cold hands into your pockets. 

To your right there is a small creek, singing a soft, bubbly sonnet as it passes over its rocky bed. Its crisp smell enters you, hydrating your soul in a single heartbeat. Kneeling on its snow dusted banks, the creek’s song and smell encompass more of your being. Push your lips onto its clarity and let the water wash into you. What you taste is ice, minerals, and life itself.

You remain in that position, your jeans growing moist from the snow. Occasionally you drink and fill your stomach with liquid crystal. The remaining time, you embrace the creek with your kiss. Your nose is just outside the surface, close enough to get wet but far enough to breathe the pine forest air.

Your knees do not grow weary, your back does not ache, and you do not feel hunger. You do not feel lonely.

You are home.