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It's Cold Outside

overtired fireside conversation

By Jackson HowlingPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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It’s cold outside.

That is fine, I don’t mind. If anything, there’s almost something comforting about the reliability of this place that it should always, consistently, be cold outside. It’s cold inside too, except by the little fire. I could make a bigger fire but I don’t want to risk losing control of it and I’m not very good at controlling fire. I used to have a friend who was. But me, I panic, and fire feeds on panic; I start breathing faster and the fire eats my breath and grows even more; I try to harness it and it consumes the reins and laughs. Fire and I never had a particularly friendly relationship. But we have to tolerate each other now.

Did I have a point?

Oh yes, it’s cold. There’s something comforting about how it’s always reliably-

Sorry, I already went over that. I’m going around in circles. That’s not healthy. In my defence, I am overtired from what feels like aeons of sleepless nights, spent battling my body in an endless cycle of wrestling matches against my heavy eyelids, my heavy limbs, my heavy head and the scores of little dreams it keeps letting slip through to flicker across my vision.

I must stay awake. If I fall asleep, the fire will die within a few hours at the most, and I will follow shortly afterwards when the cold and its night-things come creeping in; it is too cold outside for the both of us, and only together can we both survive this. The fire keeps me alive and I in turn feed it and build draft-shields for it, in a frenzied dance of desperate symbiosis. The fire is small now; it is afraid that I will give up on us both.

I’ll fall asleep eventually. I always do, I know now that’s inevitable, but I also know that I have to fight it for as long as possible. It’s like a game I play every night, seeing how long I can last before my brain wins over with the old five-minutes-can’t-hurt trick. I remember the first night, when I actually thought I was going to make it through. You never really realise how little control you have over your body when all’s said and done; where the thing that is you ends and the neurones and the instincts and the hormones begin. It’s quite distinct now though- I quite clearly do not want to sleep and my exhausted body does. Bloody thing. It’s like looking after a puppy with a death wish (I swear all puppies have a death wish) I’m trying to keep you alive you stupid thing. All I’m saying is if I die it won’t be my fault. It will be my body’s fault.

There’s the evening’s philosophy for you.

-

The point is. The point is that it’s always cold outside, even in the desert in the middle of the day, whatever strange world you think you live in.

Have fun with that.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Jackson Howling

Supposed to be studying for an engineering degree. But words are fun too. They keep escaping. So I thought I'd put them here. Favourite words: silver, Juarez, psithurism, twit.

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