...this way comes

The Highveld is in deep winter—its driest season. The grass has long since surrendered to shades of straw and ash, waiting patiently for a spring that still feels impossibly distant.Oddly enough, though, winter has not been particularly cold this year. Apart from that one bitter, sub-zero morning during our little escape to Rayton—the same morning that left the veld covered in delicate flowers of ice—the nights have been strangely forgiving. Nature, it seems, has chosen dryness over cruelty.Lately I've been wondering whether people can do the same.I haven't posted in more than a week because I've simply been drained. Not the satisfying weariness that follows honest work, but the kind that settles into your bones and quietly hollows you out. I feel as brittle as the dead grass outside; every day another little piece seems to bleach beneath an unforgiving sun. By the time evening arrives, there is scarcely enough of me left to string together a handful of coherent thoughts.Work…