A Fistful of Earth
Before the Thaw
Featured Track
HAVE HEAVEN
Florist
I stopped at the crosswalk near the station, letting the cold air drag itself heavily down my throat. It is a strange thing to suddenly realize you occupy a body, a dense cage of bone and muscle standing on cracked pavement. A woman pushed a stroller past me; her exhale plumed into the freezing street, and the child inside blinked up at the passing streetlamps, catching the harsh yellow glare in dark, unblinking pupils.
"My own vision blurred at the edges, the rigid lines of the buildings dissolving into a smear of grey. I was standing in the exact neighborhood I had spent the last three years avoiding."
The paving stones here were uneven, forcing me to watch the tips of my boots with every step. My hands burrowed deeper into my coat pockets, fingers finding the frayed seams at the bottom. There is a low vibration that runs through the telephone wires overhead, a steady hum that seems to pass straight through the skin.
I began to count the iron fences as I walked past them. One, two, three, four. It is a quiet habit of survival, anchoring the mind to the rhythm of passing metal bars. Behind the fifth gate, a patch of community garden lay surrendered to the frost. The tomato vines were black and shriveled, collapsed against their wooden stakes like discarded wire.
Yet, the sun had just begun to dip below the rooflines, casting a sharp, deliberate light through the stripped branches of the ancient oak tree in the center. The light did not warm the soil, but it made every dead leaf and broken twig cast a distinct, long shadow against the frost.
I pushed the gate open—it scraped against the concrete—and walked into the center of the dormant plot. Kneeling, I pressed my bare hand into the ground where the frost had begun to crack.
The soil was brutally cold, biting into my palm, but it held a firm, undeniable weight. It smelled of deep roots and quiet waiting. I squeezed my fingers together, trapping the damp earth under my nails, feeling the sharp edges of tiny stones and the soft decay of last year's leaves.
Walking home with dirty hands
The dirt dried against my skin as I made my way back, leaving faint, ashen smudges on the fabric of my coat where my hand had brushed against it. The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting an orange glow over the intersections, and the neighborhood that once felt like a trap now simply felt like a place where people lived and slept.
I did not wash my hands immediately when I stepped inside. Instead, I left the hallway dark and sat on the wooden chair by the window, watching the headlights of passing cars sweep across the ceiling. The soil under my nails felt like a quiet anchor, holding the room steady, keeping the house from drifting off into the night sky.
Small heavens found in the dark
Big Thief — Paul
01A gentle, intimate confession of longing and self-preservation shared into the forgiving dark.
Lorde — Liability
02Captures the profound exhaustion of carrying a heavy, fragile body through a world that feels too fast, retreating to the solitary peace of a quiet room.
Holly Humberstone — London Is Lonely
03Embodies that sudden, shaky breath taken in the middle of a crowded, indifferent street where the tide of strangers rushes past.
Mitski — Two Slow Dancers
04Beautifully confronts the slow, inevitable dimming of youth and the poignant grace found in the most unremarkable, fading moments.
Comments
Post a Comment