I love the idea of winter. I love being inside, a fire rampaging in the fireplace, drinking a nice glass of wine, or a great glass of Scotch. My arm around Fanbin, while she snuggles deep into the blankets. The wood fibers pop and crack, sending pieces of log flying as if they were a corn kernel popping. The wind screams like a band of crazed Celts. It slams across the wooden shell of the house, tearing and clawing across shingles, and eaves, and gutters.
But if I had to go out into the cold and nastiness, I am chilled to bone. I hate to be cold; the way it sinks into sinews and joints, and blood vessels. The cold saps my mind, slows my reaction time, thought process, and reflexes. My feet slowly go numb. My hands don’t want to open. My ears burn red. Winter is better as an idea, rather than an experience.
It doesn’t depress me so much as makes me miserable.
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