The Lighthouse

I'm here, again. Winter is coming. I lay my hands over my satin robe, open the large wooden shutters and take a peak outside. I see the tops of trees as far as my eye can see. The lot below surrounding my home is large. I feel it's too big. I think I'd feel more secure in a smaller space. Though there are more places to hide, the massiveness of this current dwelling attracts too much attention.

I feel a gust of wind...then wonder who else is around. I remember. I remember. I'm here, alone...again. Why I insist on a large place like this, is intriguing to me. So many rooms, beds, fireplaces, rugs, windows, stones...walls. I sense magic everywhere. I feel encouraged, inspired, motivated. Motivated to do what, though? I'm not quite sure.

I stare above the horizon. I wait for dark. I wait for rain. I wait for strong winds. I wait for storm. I imagine a lighthouse in my mind's eye. I'm always longing for something other than what is...right here in front of me. I can't help it. Here, I can use whatever colours I please, whatever medium, in whatever style. Who's going to tell me it can't be done?

Magic is here. I sigh and close the shutters. I head for the door and walk down the corridor...a long hall way where flames burn on either side. Soon, I feel a sense of warmth. Right now, in this moment, I only feel cold. But soon, really soon, the light and dark will coexist as though they had always been friends. Then, my heart will soar.