It’s cold but not so cold that I can’t think about anything else. Every so often, I sit still long enough that the chill can enter my bones. It creeps it through my sleeves, the hem of my sweater. It makes its way under my skin and it seeps, ever so slowly, into my bones. I feel it. I get up, and I shake it off. Like I said, it’s not so cold.
Sometimes I have to remember that it’s not so cold. A few layers, a scar around my neck and gloves on my hand, are all I need to venture out into the real world. The air is cold enough to remind my lungs that they’re alive. The cold hits my face in a sudden rush, and I feel more alive than I do when I’m sitting inside, waiting for the cold to pass.
Perhaps it is too cold for others. I have never been any other person; although, I like to think I’ve never been the same person twice. All the mes I have been seem to enjoy the element of cold. But I often have to remind myself of the fact, force myself to get dressed and take those first few steps out into the cold.
Then, suddenly, I remember. This is what I enjoy. This is comfortable to me. This is freedom. These are my golden years. And this cold? This cold is being alive.