the algidity

i am cold. and beyond that, it is cold everywhere I am. in my apartment by the lake, the drafts are ceaseless. the boiler has spasmed into near death, the pipes leading to the radiator are frozen inside the walls of the building, inaccessible and leaving my studio inhospitable; it is almost unbearable.

at siena, the reprimand has been sixty four degrees at the most, nothing higher, for it is a waste of heat, and most people wear their coats while inside, I must simply wear more layers, and fret not over the blasts of air that accompany our customers inside.

my knit hat has become my constant companion and somehow it has turned from perfectly suitable to absolutely unseemly. and yet, I cannot bear to remove it from my head, for even my scalp cringes at the hint of cold.

aside from these rather obvious physical factors, there is something else. why I cannot find warmth has more to do with me than winter's arrival. even if the pipes weren't frozen, there is an icy grip along my aura that has me numb and bitter. and every time I think I find the emotional culprit, another blast of frigid air comes to disturb what feels like my defrosting and I realize that being cold has become a problem.

constantly shivering, trembling with goosebumps, layered in scarves and knits and gloves and wool, my hands are still cold to the touch, my cheeks still pink, my neck burning, but I have no fever. I used to be constantly aglow, a braggart in my lack of need for winter bundlings, for items and accessories, I was always warm and burning myself up, a raging fire of angst and wrath.

my attempts at warmth seem absurd and over the top: two blankets, two sweaters, a hat and a pair of gloves to bed, socks and slippers, pajamas of warmth and comfort over those of silk and fashion, and sometimes, I sit in my apartment for a while fully clothed in all of my outdoor clothes, my bundlings, my coat, my hat, my stuff, and I shudder at the removal of each piece and every exposure of my skin to the chilled air.

when my laptop's battery sputters out, I am delighted, because in its efforts to recharge, while being plugged into an electrical socket, it is like an electric blanket, and I watch movies with it on my lap and it warms me.

red wine warms me from the inside and yet, there is not enough to stoke the fires in my belly, because it is so interminably cold.

someone to sleep in my big bed with me and if not someone, than the bulk of the down comforter covered in heavy corduroy makes a fine substitute, and it makes my eyes bleary to know that I miss the feel of him against my sleeping form. how can you miss something that you weren't even awake and concious for? this is what it is like to be in love, it runs that deep, you see, that your body longs more for something that your mind cannot explain away.

and in that grip of cold, a crystalline sense of clarity emerges, for all that has been murky and swarming is stopped and no longer able to dissolve me.