[This is what happens when you follow the sage advice of other writers and force yourself to write non-stop for ten minutes on a day when you don’t feel like writing. You jump onto the first thing that enters your mind and riff.]
I’m cold in a cold house with lukewarm tea. I sit here listening to a rotating vinyl disc with the voice of a man I don’t know speaking truths I’ve not lived (other than vicariously) and a cat circling like a shark. My hands are cold. The tips of my fingers are ice cubes. The edge of my ass cheeks are frigid. The only reason my toes aren’t cold is the thick wool socks in Sherpa lined slippers. But I’m cold through and through.
What is reason or the value of retrospect in such a cold place – in my body – in my soul? Could a monster named Jasper conquer here if his only weapon was fire? I think not. The timer beep-beeps – over and over … the song moves on and the next one begins; yet I sit here freezing. I suppose that’s an exaggeration since hypothermia hasn’t lulled me to sleep.
There isn’t a breeze in the house – just no warmth. Not physically and certainly not metaphorically. I burn with frigid anger. Like frostbite – it takes my appendages and blackens them, breaks them, until I cannot walk. My vision blurs and the cold mist of dry ice vapor envelopes my heart until it is no more.
Perhaps in an alternate universe where planets revolve around a golden sun of plasma bubbling flares of radiant light out across the nebula – perhaps in that universe my anger would burn like fire. But not here in this universe where we count backwards and swirl around the absence of light – this black hole we call our sun and core of our system. In this universe I burn with that anger which is not solid liquid but is beyond ice – a whirling dervish of skin ripping vapor that depletes the air of anything you would find breathable in your place of space-time. I’m cold in a cold house and I sit here and feed off this daily dose of nerve numbing power – anger.