The remainder of my first cup of coffee has long grown cold, leaving me with the dilemma of leaving my desk to replenish it with another hot, satisfying brew or staying here and finishing my thoughts.  I am sure there will be more coffee when I return to the kitchen; I am not so sure about my thoughts, so I will stay here.

When I went to bed last night, I felt very cold.  The temperature in the house was no colder than normal at bedtime, but it felt much colder nonetheless.  The utterly annoying setback thermostat works reasonably well, in spite of its poor design and very low usability score, and at bedtime the indoor temperature had just reached 65 degrees, on its way to the nighttime lower limit of 62.  Though chilly, that’s a far cry from cold.  But I felt very cold anyway.  Perhaps it was just the forecast low of 18 that got to my psyche; whatever it was, I was shivering cold.

Once beneath the covers, though, the down comforter trapped enough body heat to make me comfortable.  And when I was comfortable, I went to sleep.  And when I slept, I dreamed.  Unlike some mornings, when I can recall the previous night’s dreams in vivid detail, last night’s dreams are like echoes in the fog, muffled and indistinct.  I know only that I had troubling dreams.  These were dreams that left me frightened and feeling exposed and vulnerable; not exposed and vulnerable in the psychological sense but in the real, physical sense, as if I were naked and subject to attack at any moment. But I can’t recall anything about what happened in my dreams, only a sense of fear; goose-flesh fear that penetrates to the bone and beyond.

I guess I’ve finished recording what there was to record.  I have the sense that there’s more, but it just won’t cooperate by moving down my arm, through my  hand, into my fingers, and onto the keyboard.   My sense is that there’s a story to be told.  Maybe it will come to me, maybe not.  For now, the second cup of coffee may help wash the chill away. The widget on my computer tells me it’s 15 degrees outside. I’ve adjusted the thermostat, manually, from its normal 68 to a balmy 70, but it still feels cold in here.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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