Crossing the Central Reservation of My Imagination

Temperature when I left home this morning: 28 degrees of frost.

I drove to work today kitted out in full arctic explorer gear, with the heater blasting away, and yet I could still feel my body's warmth draining away. Walking across the car park to the front door, a journey of less than 50 feet, it felt as if knives were stabbing into my cheeks. All the while, a feeble dying sun hung limply in a dim grey sky, refusing to rise.

Normally, I don't feel cold, but lately I have felt nothing but. God has forsaken us. Mother Nature has turned her back on us, and we shall not see her face again except in fury, hurling yet another deadly storm. Meantime, our world is a lifeless lump of ice covered rock, swathed in murk and shadow, whose very air is grit against our lungs.

I sit at my desk clutching my winter coat about me against frigid draughts which enter at will and mock our building's heating system. A mug of tea is good for about ten minutes' delicious warmth, but I've already had five, which will not do much for my efforts at sleeping tonight. I dread the journey home with the breath of death's angel to numb my flesh, feeling this unworldly chill work its way deeper and deeper into my bones, extinguishing all that clings to life and nourishes hope.

That feeling of hope is what I miss the most.