Whenever I return, I’m bitten by sadness – and then the words speak to me and tell me to be sad with them.
They cascade across the walls of my mind, reminding me of my melancholy, our mutual understanding.
My words so often whisper woes to me, wistful and wondering as they seek to know me.
But the words will always be touched by ice, because the cold is what embraces me in its own form of warmth.
The cold is methodical in its touch, running its presence across my chest and up my throat. It makes its way to my mind through my eyes, reminding me of somber solitude and melancholic monotony.
But then the ice brings words, and I wonder if I should truly fear it; the cold is honest and familiar and creates fractals of beauty and realness.
A realness I fear the world ignores, as it obsessively searches for its next fix of fire, too consumed by the heat to see its flesh is burning away as it eats up everything else around it.
We scoff at the patient silence of the cold and fear of freezing too long, even if it deepens our understanding of who we are. The bite of frost hurts, but it is slow and reflective…I can flow through my thoughts as the water in my breath creates steam in the chill, a manifestation of the controlled heat that is still inside me.
I am burning, but it is inside, the heat of my heart. But the cold comes and it knows, it slows me and weeps with me as the fire of the day awaits, forcing me to step forward into the feverish passing of time, the passing that is all too fast to forget, yet too arbitrary to remember.