The cold feels as if my inner thermostat has been set by some skin-flint miser, and all I am allowed is a few degrees below real comfort.
The cold has fixed an energy tap to my core and is set to a steady leak, not enough to keep me in bed, yet sufficient to take away any desire to leap or sing. I realise it will take flight in a few days and, for all but the passage of time, I'm quite well and healthy, yet I wish it to go all the faster with my impatient child-self.
The cold becomes invisible weights tied to limbs that would rather fly, rather dance, rather than do anything but succumb to the mild fever and fervent production of a mucus tissue mountain.
The energy that is usually on tap, starts to drizzle out as if there were soft cold rain within; it is as if my spark begins to struggle under even timid drops. And though in a week I'll be strong I'm sure, fire rekindled and burning bright, for now this cold has me seeking the shelter of home and hearth.
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