what a day to die trying

Tonight, I'm cooking dinner in my kitchen.

It's not that it's light outside, but there's a blue glow to the darkness. My house smells like onions sauteing, like the Starfighter lilies I brought home, and when the brief exhale of the breeze comes in, it brings a bit of the February night itself: the way the earth smells when it should be cold, but isn't, and everything thaws and starts to take on the scent of itself. I'm marinating a brilliant piece of salmon to go with cous cous, brussels sprouts and a lemon butter sauce.

This is peaceful. I am enjoying my own company, settled a little from the fury and sense of unfairness that had risen up in me unbidden when I was running: emotional exercise vomit, like happens sometimes, choking. But quiet now. Alone, nice. I love to cook, and this is a meal I like to make and tend to make often. I like to fall into the rhythm of it, cleaning as I go, checking three pots and the oven, balancing the time, writing on this awful blog a little. I have my hair in a long braid down my back, and I'm still wearing my running tights.

I feel different than I have felt, but not in a good or bad way. Simply different. Changed. Awake. A little feral. Maybe it's that I'm building toward some great or terrible thing, gathering speed for it.