Soul Journal

The weather outside has become fierce. I listen to the wind in the trees, my garden a cacophony of branches creaking and leaves rustling. I sit on the balcony, a mug of tea steaming on the table next to me. The view is splendid. The rain is failing in sheets of water, a downpour of magnitude that we rarely receive in this city.

It’s good to be home. I very much relish the periods of time I spend in my oasis of comfort.

The light is a pale, unearthly shade of golden grey, the sun a veiled entity behind the blanket of downy silver. The leaves shimmer, dripping, radiating a deep green that glows under the blustery sheets of grey.

I lift my mug and inhale the scent, an aromatic blend of spices that intoxicates my taste buds. The pepper and cardamom makes my clitoris flicker, and I find myself wandering into the memory of the night before, when a swarthy near-stranger shared my bed.