Blah, Fucking Cold.

So we write again about home.

Home.

Home.

He sits down to write, but has to rise and make sure that the pipes in the kitchen haven’t froze, locked up, hardened with the cold that has taken over his cruel side of this world, his island, his lighthouse.

And he places worn, beaten boots next to the door.

Cold and cruel chases him always. 

He opens the cold water valve.  Lets it run.  All is well.

The coast is clear.

Cold.

Clear.

Bitter.

True.

And he runs the water in the kitchen sink.  It is cheap stainless steel.  And he knows that it will stain if the right chemicals, the wrong things touch its surface, his surface.  

He dips his head into the cold steel sink of the tiny kitchen and runs the water, the cold water, through his hands and over his head.  Cold is heat, and he bathes in the bitter embrace. Cold.  Bitter cold.  And he shivers and howls.  Cold.

“Hear me, I am.”

And he whips his head,

Punches walls, cabinets,

And rails.

And just keeps pushing his head under,

Into the cold,

Basking in the white heat.

Iced up on the outside, but inside, all is well.

Cold water runs strong,

Deep thru wide veins,

Exposed and left open to discover,

Dissect.

Do you test the hidden things inside your walls that you take for granted?

Do you?

Will you?

He does.  He must.

Cold.

It is always cold here out on the island at this time of year.

What did you expect?

And he shoves his head under, into the cold, the ice, again,

And again,

And again,

And again,

And again, and again…

Until he is numb,

Or just numb enough so he can sleep.

Cold is heat.

And he radiates,

Burns,

Churns,

Fires slow, strong engines, and he waits.

“Hear me, I am.”

He dips his head into the cold water just once more.

He lets it flow and drag over and through him.

The cold is again heat;

When understood and allowed.
And carbon and fine steel washes away.
Black, heavy metals, leave him,
light and heavy,
never clean,
but close.

And he just is…

Cold.

Wet from the top down.

Shivering.

But the pipes aren’t frozen,

And this is a good thing.

And he shakes his cold wet head.

Like a good dog,

Outside the door.

And cleans up the mess inside.

When allowed back in.

Good boy.

Sit.

Stay.

Purrfect.