On the Importance of Being Cold
Cold.
The kind that turns your fingers a paler shade of you.
The kind that makes your toes curl up and makes you turn away from the bite of the morning breeze.
While friends and acquaintances alike will keep their windows shut tight during winter months, I make it a point to keep at least one of two windows cracked open. This morning it is all three.
This becomes habit not of preference, but of necessity. I simply cannot think in stale air. If I cannot think then I am hiding myself from the important issues of life that need to be addressed with the appropriate respect they demand.
If I am not cold, I will sleep through our meetings, sleep until tomorrow, when I will sleep until I am tired and surrender myself to yet another woefully thin dream.
I choose to be cold because it is easy.
I don’t need to plan ahead or depend on any assistance because when I am cold I can breathe deeper. The air is full of death, not the kind of rot and mold, but the kind that simply is not. A non-being kind of death. A dry leaf kind of death. The death of which we are most afraid.
Yes, to be cold and dry is supreme. It is the ultimate state of non-disturbance, the purest condition that one ought to submit their body.
I want to feel it in my bones, knuckles, ankles and nose. I must feel it so that I can recede into my chambers and concentrate my being upon a higher state.
When I am cold and sit in my tower, I see all of the plans for what is to be, all that is to be added and subtracted from what is.
I make precise, speedy decisions and fly like night to their service.
I scale the icy walls in defiance of their imposition because I have altered my composition.
I have made myself closer to non-being, so close that I am now skating upon the surface.
I ask to be cold and I cease to exist.
I ask to serve and it delivers me to the doorstep.
