My melancholia takes pleasure in the gray skies and dreary colors of winter. There are times when it settles, like an achy fever that colonizes in one’s joints refusing to break. Inside I am ancient. The old soul I bear looked out of my girlhood’s eyes into a world crammed with the garish and gasped, appalled. Reconciling the age I live in with the tenor of my being is like the weaving of new, boiled wool with antique lace. Textures collide. I long to be in the wilderness—capable and free—my grandmother’s Book of Foxfire as my guide. I fall of the grid when I’m like this, shunning technology as much as possible, fighting to find my roots… myself.