It’s cold outside and I’m having flat tires and I’m having writers block and I’m having a baby. That’s not even true; the last part I mean. My face and my toes have teensy little arrows-well, more like pin arrows- being shot into them. They’re tingly and they’re cold.
And there they go. Nothing. No more feeling. Until I walk inside. And it hurts for a second, while the feeling comes back. Arrows, numb, nothing, pain. Better. More.
The sky is shady shady character these days. All gray, or white when it’s snowing. It’s coldie locks and the three burrs time of year. What is porridge anyways? Sounds frightful. Frightful like papers due and permafrosted sidewalks and below 13 mornings.
I don’t really like the cold that much. Can you tell? Never really have.
I’m walking across campus and I’m cold and I want to be inside. But that feeling, that wonderful feeling, of walking inside and feeling your cheeks go rosy, and feeling warm and cold and out of breathe and content all at the same time. The cold seems ok when you look at it that way.
Doesn’t it?
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