It is August. I'm exhausted. Feeling fragile. I've been having cravings for winter, the dead cold silence of winter. (This is obviously a form of madness). For alone. All these things will pass. When I'm not writing enough, I'm off-kilter. I'm falling apart.
Feathers often find me. I'm attuned to the sound of feathers falling. Usually they're white. I knew I had finished my novel, Hive, when I opened the front door and found a white feather. The novel ends with a white feather.
But this black one. It found me, I found it, it arrived, yesterday. I looked up the meaning on Ye Olde Web, and found this: "a black feather means the guardian of your soul is near." I looked no further. The primary character in my work in progress is interested / obsessed not only with purses and handbags, but with the philosophy of the soul. She needs a guardian for her soul. This black feather belongs to her.
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