Grit on the streets.

There's grit on the streets. The council (or some kindly citizen) has gritted the sidewalks so that we don't slip over on our way to work. The cars in our street are frosted over, and our neighbours scrape at them, frustrated.

My hat has too many gaps in the knitting and I am pondering an early 'hat-with-ear-flaps' purchase. That or earmuffs and mittens. Like a real winter!

Dave makes soup and plays video games in his robe. I end up in the bedroom earlier than usual as it's usually the warmest room, and besides, I can get into bed.

The light is still there in the mornings, but gone by 4.30ish. The sky is a deep, deep pitch black when I walk home. It feels like 9pm and my body feels confused. I am even more sluggish than usual.

Depression is close, but not creeping in yet. I long for music. My keyboard is timed to be purchased in December on the first eve of.. Hannukah. Or I can consider it early Christmas, a very late necessity. I'll have had 7 months, 19 days without touching a key, playing a piece, writing a song. The longest stretch in 18 years. I have lost my hands and my voice and my songs are wandering around my head and smacking into my skull, waiting to be released. I'm almost too scared to hum. I feel on standby; my heart in my throat until I can free them properly. They might run away if not able to bounce off of (fabricated) ivories, lost in a mess of song sheets.

I am ingrained here. Things are changing around me, the trees have lost their leaves, the bed is too warm in the mornings to leave it.

I am lost and I am found. I am rumpled and dazed. I am loved and in love.

Winter is here.