Ceremonies

There is a bitter wind across the beach this morning and there are ceremonies that I had been putting off which I have had to perform. I swept the rough wooden boards and smiled at the memory of the contrast your pale smooth skin against them. Then I unrolled the old, much mended kelim in front of the stove and the room was filled with the aroma of the caravanserai.

I sat on the step, a brimming steaming mug of tea at hand, and honed the edge of my axe until it was keen and then, throwing my coat aside, cut and split wood, enjoying my strength as I swung the heavy axe hard and with ease. The pieces were carried inside in a basket made from the willow that hangs over the stream that reaches the sea some twenty minutes walk from here.

Now I sit cross-legged on the rug and feed wood into the stove and enjoy fresh tea. I have been thinking about love, recognising that I am a loving man, but one who seldom, if ever, feels love. I am armoured against amour as surely as the strong walls keeps out the chill wind and have been since my childhood when I knew the tearing pain of loss for the first time and started to wall my feelings in.

I am enjoying being able to take the time to observe. I stare at the texture of a pebble and count stars; I hold a smooth pink shell to my lips and then peer closely into it, as I looked into widened, excited eyes as I slapped hard between widely spread thighs... over and over again.