I can’t get warm.
It has been so cold outside lately, especially in the
evenings. I keep walking in it. It pierces the exposed bits of skin on my face
where my thick, green scarf and knitted hat won’t meet. Pin pricks on my
cheeks, and nose, and I keep my head facing forward, concentrating on the
nowhere I am going. My breath clouds me as I try to follow it with my eyes, each
exhalation fades into the dark grey that surrounds me. There is a tiny hole in
the corner of my left mitten, so I keep my hands jammed in my pockets. The soft
pad of my finger traces the bottom of my pocket where a penny resides, tiny
cold metal.
My mind has been aching for weeks, months. Too much
drinking, dancing, singing, laughing, crying, working, reading, moving, always,
always moving. It is as if there just isn’t room up there for me anymore.
The long streets stretch before me, with seemingly endless
sighs. The houses are quiet, warm hubs. The tall, black trees make this street a cave. I just recycle songs.
I take a deep breath, the approaching winter fills me.
Winter is something I can both taste and smell, sharp snowflakes, mixed with
dirty city air dissolve in my lungs. A painful comfort, because it makes me endure
reality.
Salt, snow, and leaves crunch beneath my dead boots as I
march through the tail end of this transitional season. The sky is always either pink, or grey. The
sun is long gone now, and the darkness breaks the static in my brain into two
halves. Each side is folded into pockets, and the noise quells as the snow
drifts in.
My toes are hard, my skin is at constant alert, and my nose
will inevitably drip. I can't get warm, but this late November impression keeps self-sufficiency on my side.
- 10:24 AM
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