Friday, November 7, 2014

The Mathematics of Regret

I can smell the snow today. The cold is coming. Brutal, unforgiving, and bitter. We sit and wait. Maybe instead of waiting I should prepare. Are there enough blankets? Did I pay the heat bill? Will the sun shine again this year? (With only a few more weeks until 2015. Can you dig it?)

How can I prepare for the end? It's certainly not about muscling through it; it's more subtle than that; it's softer. A mixture of fear and love and patience and disappointment swirl on this winter's gale. The wind goes bone-deep and sends the shivers, and frozen tears, and the finality of seasonal death through my body. There is no blanket that can keep me warm. No coat that can ward this off. No way to suss out more heat or light. The darkness is coming too. The day shrinking into a mere collection of minutes.

The fire next time… It takes two beers to remember now, and three more to forget.


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