Cold Feet

That the cold is a bitch is hardly justifying the brutal reality. I found it daunting to walk out past the sliding doors, for all I heard while in the lift, were the haunting notes of the singing wind. It seemed to beckon an ominous prospect. A possible snow storm, hail stones raining down on the ones without shelter. It must be 4 degrees this morning. For my fingers felt the grip of pain. Like the time I was out in the cold, trying to open up a christmas tree outside the chapel in a small california town. Even hiding them in my jumper pockets didn't help.

I ducked under the hoodie, looking for the familiar warm scent to keep me breathing, all four layers.

Even now, sitting on my bed, under the sheets, my bones are still aching from the chill. Cold hands and feet. Toes that turn blue from all that walking. Hands frozen trying to hang on to the the frozen food packs from the local asian grocer. Time of the year to dive into the simplicity of noodles and good old mono-sodium-glutamate soup. Fishballs, tofu, dumplings, miso and all things hearty. Which is supposed to remind me of my hometown, yet it feels still so foreign.

I got down on my knees and faced the carpet and let the gamut of tears and exhaustion weigh me in and try me out. Does it have to be this cold, I found myself asking. The sword felt heavier with the dip of the cold. And the chill factor made the training even tougher. Every moment I pray that it does not hail, even though sometime soon I wish to slide out in the snow. As I drifted in and out of my insanity, trying to choose life instead of throwing up into the oncoming traffic, my eyes got heavy and the frost bite made it numb.

All I could think of was the warm sunset in the distant horizon and the voices still trying to bring it all down. Go, this cold is too much, much too much to bear alone.