By the Fireside.

There’s something oddly satisfying about sitting by an open fire doing nothing. Turn off the TV, put down the book, just muse.

But then a blanket of introspection starts settling like a gentle but incessant fall of snow, gradually obscuring everything but that which lies within the walls of the shelter. Sometimes a little sleep comes falling with it, and with the sleep come little dreams that are of no value except to amuse or horrify. And sometimes also comes a sense of emptiness borne on the breeze of a life without allegiances.

I offered my allegiance to several people over the past few years – subtly of course, nothing obvious or expectant – but none of them wanted it. They all had allegiances of their own; there were no vacancies, no role for me to fill. That’s good, because incorrigible drifters never stop drifting, one way or another, until the final curtain begins to fall. Drifters can’t be trusted to be the same person this time next year, so what value their allegiance?