A winter's morning

I awoke softly. No alarm, no glaring light, just naturally, peacefully roused from sleep. I sat up, stretched and placed my feet onto the cold laminate floor. I stood, and paced over to the window. Opening the curtain, i was greeted by a blanket of idyllic, white snow covering everything as far as the eye could see. I smiled, memories of snow-days during my childhood flooding my mind. A joyful robin hopped around my garden, an animal always warmed my soul, signifying the change of seasons.

I meandered into the kitchen and poured myself a mug of steaming, creamy coffee. Drink in hand, i returned to the bedroom window. The windowledge was large enouhh for mw to sit on and observe the outside world. I often sat and read of an evening on this windowledge, or wrote amateur poetry and short stories. There was something homely about that ledge- although the whole cabin was my home, that ledge felt like where i belonged. I curled up on the ledge, clutching my warm coffee, snuggled in my fluffy dressing gown, watching the sun shine and melt the thin layers of frost and ice.

Once i had finished my coffee, i decided it was time to get dressed and go for a morning walk, something i hadn't done for months due to the harsh, cold weather, but there was something inviting about the snowy scene that lay before me. I strolled to the closet, picked out a pair of thick, thermal leggings and a long sleeved undershirt. I pulled these items onto my tired body, appreciating the softness of the material against my skin. Next, i selected a cream-coloured woolly jumper. The colour matched nicely with my black bottoms and brown leather knee-high boots. I left the bedroom and entered the hallway, where my goose-down coat hung on a coathook, alongside a scarf that my grandmother had made for me in my teen years. I wrapped this around my neck, and pulled my coat on top. I brushed my sleek brown hair, picked up my keys and headed for the door.

Opening my heavy oak-wood door, i was immediately assaulted by a blast of cold, winter air. The cold made my cheeks sting, and i felt the bloodrush as my nose and cheeks became flushed. Pulling the door closed behind me, i stepped down off my doorstep and created a brand new footprint in the sheet of fluffy snow. There was something melancholy about the footprints- a reminder of my solitude, as the only footprints that ever graced my property were my own. "I like my independace," i thought to myself as i exited the garden and made my way onto the small lane that ran past my house into the small village. I followed this lane, my internal monologue playing in my mind, until i reached the bridge. I stood in the middle of the bridge, leaning against the railing, and lit a cigarrette. This bridge stretched over a rather large stream, which at the moment was entirely frozen over. I fancied myself skating on the stream, almost like skating on the Thames in victorian London. This daydream enveloped me, i didn't realise how long i had been at that bridge until the cigarrette i was smoking had burned away and i was startled back into reality by the sensation of intense heat on my fingertips. I stashed the butt in my pocket-bin, a small pouch i purchased in order to avoid flicking my butts onto the floor or sticking gum onto the pavement. A small purchase, but impactful. I was always very mindful of the environment, as i always saw much beauty in nature.

As i crossed the bridge and neared the village, the hum of car engines became audible. There was perfect silence at my cabin, you couldn't hear the road from where i lived and cars very seldom travelled the lane next to my home. Most people become accustomed to the hustle and bustle of busy life, but when you're a single writer whom loves one's own company, you become adjusted to different sounds, such as the creak of certain floorboards or the soft chirp of birds that visit my garden. Alongside the hum of engines, the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath my feet accompanied me as i travelled. At this moment, it began snowing once again, at first small, dainty flakes that seemed shy and gentle, and shortly these evolved into heavy drops that hurtled aggressively towards the ground. The larger flakes signified heavier weather was on it's way, so i decided to take the path that looped back onto the other end of the lane so i could come full-circle and end up back at my sanctuary.

The air had become viscously cold, so i raised my hood. Several snowflakes lingered on the fur lining of the hood, and i watched them as they slowly melted into nothing. This reminded me of my own mortality- that nothing lasts forever. I was satisfied, however, because i kept in mind the fact that it is not actually our lives that are important; it is the connections and the decisions that we make that last. I reminisced on my own connection with nature, with the world, and reminded myself that even if i am alone, i have the stories and poems and characters that i had created to keep me company. Years after my death people will read my work, and this will be my legacy. The melting snowflakes reminded me that although nothing is permanent, we can be grateful for the time and experiences we have.

As i neared my house, this line of thought ceased, and i was consumed by notions of "home" and belonging. I had put myself in a writing mood now, and as soon as i entered the house i returned to the ledge, pen and paper in hand, and let the words flow from me onto the page. This was where i belonged.