Being
too warm or too cold, beyond the edge of comfort, is the closest experience of
death I’ve had at my age. During high school, I recall forsaking my love of
Winter because of the pretentiousness of thinking that way. Naturally people
can love Winter when they are in a warm home looking out at it. The truth is I do love Winter, the quiet, cold death. For me, it’s
sort of akin to oncoming headlights in the opposite lane – moth syndrome – and
if I’m not careful, I might find myself merging into it. It’s an odd, seemingly
subconscious desire, to put this body through something; maybe a way of trying
to grasp control of this sensory prison.
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