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Storylines

Furrows deep and pronounced line my brow. I contemplate them, 
willing them away, stroking them gently, each stroke meant to iron them out.
I am their canvas, they are my storylines.

I seize my ironing, and listen to their tales.

I feel the cold to my bones!

Not the usual Cape Town cold I grew up with in the Southern Suburbs, but an iciness matching any day spent in Tewkesbury more than a decade ago in the UK. 
The kind of cold that requires down feather jackets and knee-high fake fur boots. 
The kind of cold that leaves sleet on windshields, and soup pots full.

Central heating!Pah!
Our homes in Cape Town are ill-equipped for this kinda torture!

I hug my hot water bottle to me like a long lost lover, it's squishy, and pot-bellied and jiggles when I squeeze it.
Raising the white mug to my lips, I slurp the almost scalding coffee quickly.
My fifth cuppa and it's only 10:42am.
Two bars glow bright orange at me.
Mikey hogs the heater, and Georgie sits on top of the TV cabinet like a sphinx.
He's either mythical and wise; or dumb and thick as a ginger plank.
I can't decide which.
My fleecy pj bottoms is sending me pink hearts and subliminal messages about love and sleep.
I have very little energy for either.
Being 50 has its drawbacks.

A steady stream is pinging against the  patio doors; the cold increasing suddenly; and unexpectedly. The wind picks up leaves and branches creating tiny whirlwinds in the garden below. It feels strange having so much time on my hands.
I scoff at time, wonder how it can be so callous and so giving.
I chide it for being an eternity and so seriously short in supply, both at the same time.
I'm infuriated by it's lack of concern for people, by it's very nature.

I stare at the clock on my task bar, willing it to speed up to 5pm, to when he's home.
I am greedy for personal contact having been divorced from love for almost a year.
1000's of kilometers in seperation.
Challenging the constraints of love.
And finding it too much of a challenge.

Love requires much from it's believers; time and proximity the very currency demanded by love.
It requires nearness and want.
It wants connection and lust.
It lusts after that which gives the feels.
It feels so good with the most delicate touch.
It touches at the hearts of humans.
It humanises the most cynical amongst us.
It requires so much.

Me?
I am willing to pay the bill.
And will leave a big, fat tip so great service is ensured at the table of love.
I will forsake all for love.
And I will come for it, across vast distances.
I will come for it, willingly.
And I will fight for it, with all my might.
I will fight for it, bravely.
And I will believe in it, even with many indications to the contrary.
I will believe in it, foolishly.

Is it foolhardy of me?
Probably.
Only time will tell. I've been well acquainted with time for more than half a century.
And I hope to be well acquainted with it for 50 more. In that time I will do much in the path of love because there is nothing more valuable than love and time.


Time has marked me.
                               Furrows deep and pronounced line my brow. I contemplate them, 
 stroking them gently, each stroke telling a tale.

I am their canvas, they are my storylines.

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