A Dream of Winter & Horses
She closes her eyes.
A Creative Writing Piece on the Beauty of Solitude
Dreaming of Winter
She wakes to a chilly morning with hand sewn quilts pulled up to her chin. A too-chubby cat sits at her feet, starring expectantly, eyes conveying emotions in the way that only cats' eyes can.
She & the cat wake their bodies with stretches. They hop off the bed onto a cold creaky floor. She takes care of the cat's needs, & with the cat contented, she begins her day.
She slips her feet into the hefty winter moccasins warming on the hearth, & opens the door to a winter morning of crisp air, hushed by a sparkling blanket of white virgin snow. She wraps a wool blanket around herself & steps out into the frigid early morning.
The snow crunches beneath her feet as she blazes a new trail for herself, in the freshly fallen snow, from her cabin's door to the small carport where a pile of freshly cut pine, delivered just yesterday, awaits. Sap drips onto her blanketed arms as she chooses the logs which her cabin's fireplace will consume in the elegant tendrils of its flames while the too-chubby cat warms itself near the hearth & considers the deep & important matters of its cat world.
She returns to the cabin, & feeds the pine to the expectant, & eternally hungry, fire.
She changes from her sleeping thermals to her winter clothing, & covers her head with a haphazardly knitted toque who has seen its fair share of winter. The toque & the crown of her head share a familiarity akin to the bonds of brotherhood. It seems that here, in this quiet place, everyday is a winter day, & everyday this same poorly crafted hat of green wool warms her, & protects her from the wind, & the bite of winter's harshness.
Her mother knit that toque, & she imagines her mother's love in that toque.
She opens the heavy wood door of her cabin, having to push with both hands. The hinges creak in protest, whispering their warning of the woods beyond.
As she squints into the piercing glare of sun on snow & bright white light, all she is aware of is the silence. All she sees is the immensity of the heavily wooded foreground, the needles of every fir, & pine, covered in insulating snow.
She feels the isolation of this place all the way to her bones & it feels like infinity. It feels like she could go on forever, with the crunching of the snow beneath her feet & know nothing but peace.
There is a rustle in the trees, & a snapped branch echoes through the eternity of the winter's stillness. A great white horse steps from the forest, the breath from its nostrils freezing to mist in the air.
The horse prances gracefully in one spot. Its eyes, as black as forever, stare into hers, & she is taken by the majesty of the beast whose existence is all about freedom & speed.
She wants to live the life of that horse.
She wants it, not in the way that most seek to have a horse. She wants not to climb on its back, nor dig her heel into its flank. Rather, she wants to know the freedom that comes only from speed, power, & near flight. She wants to feel & know the wonderment of the extremes & emotional depths to which the horse's muscled body would carry its spirit. She wants to know all that this horse knows, all the secrets its mirrored eyes reflect into the world.
She & the horse stare at each other, both knowing, but her trapped in her human bonds keeping her spirit tied to the earth in a simple way, preventing flight, & preventing freedom. The horse, more awake than any creature could be, pities her humanity.
The horse turns, & disappears back into the infinite woods, snow cascading from disturbed branches in puffs of twinkling dust, settling on the ground.
Alone in the Wilderness
She stands, & stares, wanting nothing more than to be that horse & to know the world the way that horse knows the world - with freedom, power, & an unbroken will. She thanks the horse for this glimpse of its world of soaring spirits, & elegance.
She closes her eyes.
She opens her eyes. She is in her apartment, her too-fat cat lounges at the foot of her bed. Traffic buzzes on the street below her window. People shout, & the seagulls squawk their fowl seagull language.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR - BRITTEN THOMPSON
Who is Britten? She's a reticent little beast born in the wilds of Northern Alberta to a foul-mouthed, French-Canadian father & an angry, stiff-upper-lipped mother. Britten is, almost always, wild-haired & poorly dressed. She recently left the beautiful & untamed chill of Canada for the blistering & somewhat oppressive heat of Australia. Her list of pastimes is short & includes reading, writing, petting cats, overeating & alphabetizing things. She's a fan of Windex on Facebook because who doesn't want a streak free shine? She dreams of one day writing a super-awesome novel that affords her & her partner a comfortable lifestyle, a large property, a few horses & the means with which to foster children in need...or just becoming a red panda.
When Britten isn't writing, reading, or organizing things in her home, she can be found cuddling with her boyfriend, arguing about why Rajon Rondo is the best point guard in the history of ever, browsing Gumtree for a future cat or kitten, or contemplating days gone by, the passage of time & how ridiculous it is that humans have yet to evolve enough to grow a third set of teeth.