drifting

I wish it were a constant autumn, of turning leaves and rain swept afternoons. Cool and calm is the sky, overcast and grey. A turbulent, drifting wind is no match for cover. The promise of a new love, the feeling of expectancy which never comes, a reverie of such living defines the season. It’s not cold yet. The days are still long, and the shiver of winter will not be missed when winter is skipped. For the next three-to-four months you will inhabit an underground cave moist from its bubbling springs channeled from further beneath the earth. It is here where you will hibernate. Your body’s metabolism slows; time exists only in the echoes of a drip from the earth’s ceiling into the chasm of rock and water. The lonely hours are long enough, you forget the life on the surface, and when times drags and those haunting memories resurface within your mind, the inner light fades, your eyes remain motionless, the breathing slows, and the body regenerates in slumber.
I could do without winter all together. The season has, quite frankly, made me insane. I can’t stand the short days, the bitter wind and frigid air, the not so promising words from the stranger to “hold on, we’re in the last days before spring,” only to realize it will be another two months before one season actually morphs into another. This season is painful. The days scorn you. No human was made to endure such weather. Not this human, at least.

How the cat stays warm in the winter