Gray consumes the air and sky, and blankets the land with white, the wintry one refusing to leave my doorsteps. I labor yet another hour to stay awake, knee-deep in yawning in place, drugged by the power of dim lights and darkening days.
Sleep is like a tender-hearted woman come to cuddle me. But when I wake the chill in my room reminds me that my cocoon is so thick the blankets wrap me tight. Waking is sometimes severe; I am reminded of the tales of old men and old women who lose feeling in their arms, legs and other extremities, as if death slowly creeps up from the toes and feet...which I did watch when my wife's grandmother finished dashing between the veils and settled for the slow inevitable slipping beyond the material.
When I do venture out in the arctic air stream, breathing is an invigorating exercise. Bundled in layers upon layers, I feel like a fat walrus. But the cold quickly becomes a friend if I can survive the therapy. There will be no more yawning in place there, as I discover sobriety, released from stupor. Inside too long, stiff and sedentary, one's own society vanishing like a vapor, February's fingers, caresses the aged to sleep, into a fog of the numbing, the pungent, and the loss of control.