CABIN AT THE END OF THE WORLD














Tomorrow I begin to think about the future. A task I am well versed in. 

I must consider the mountains and the grass and the touch of bark beneath my fingers.
Think of the way my skin distorts as I pull away from the tree stump.
 How prickled my hairs become as the cold passes over them.  
If I paused for a moment the wind could take me - I consider where she would.

Tomorrow I will let her take me.




















It’s a strange thing to walk around an old house with new owners. You see the bed in a different corner but feel the same draft pull in from the window. 

The faint discoloration of the walls that mark where your prized mementos were put up and torn down. 
This is not your home now.

There are new memories here entangled with your own. New thumb prints. 







                             

                               











You can look backwards, you can digest how things were far easier than how they will be.

The future tends to be a fickle thing, unpredictable, fluid and full of additives. It can be stripped back, cleansed and torn to the bone. That's where I am, that's where everyone here lives. In presumption, in insecurity. In hope for changes and choices we cannot see or make any longer. In people we will never know.