Because I’m the man of the house I have a very special relationship with our garage. That’s because the garage has odd manly smells and dark secrets. And because I’m unemployed now I can lose myself there for hours.

In the circle of life the cat craps in the sandbox and the dog digs it up and eats it. My beard has grown so long that when I fluff it out it gives my face the shape of a crude weapon or tool, blunt at the bottom. The tides of time have gone out, and the beach is now bare. I await the coming of nothingness and all it affords.

It could be like that tiny cottage outside of Bath we rented one week in the winter. The soft shades of morning coming through the candlelit windows and the quiet stillness extending from a time well before I was to a time well after I’m gone, the sense of an over-riding peace and certainty, a place where there’s always room for me. It could be like that here in our home in mid-October as the days begin to slow and the morning takes its time coming on, then doesn’t do much once it does.

We can curl up with our cats and blankets and books and reheat yesterday’s soup. We can light the fire and while away the hours, it’s thick like maple syrup, with lots left in the jar.

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, stream-of-consciousness, travel, William Pearse writer