Wonderland

The days have gotten shorter, and they feel shorter as well.  Not just the daylight hours, but each 24 hour period, even the nights.  

In summer, I embrace the daylight and venture forth to find pleasure every single day, and when the night finally surrounds me, I rub the pleasure all over my body, into my mind as well, and it feels so nice and cooling, so light and viscous at the same time.  And the nights feel so long and sensual, like one of the satin slips I used to wear as a teenager.  I liked the way they contrasted the Texas heat, the way they clung to my body and made me feel like a woman.  

But in winter, too much of myself just tries to get through the days, one after another and all the same, an obstacle course I’d love to take a break from.  I feel like I’m usually tired or bored, and I turn inward much more.  But on the bright side, as a consequence of all of this, time speeds up for me a lot more in winter.  Seems to go by a lot faster than any other season, and this comforts me at the onset and terrifies me when I really think about it.  The most glorious part is the stark and stunning landscape.  I take the most pictures of the outdoors in winter.  In reality, as opposed to thought, I usually end up trying to view it as a challenge instead of a limitation, and thinking of creative ways to have fun and fulfill myself, that don’t involve activities like skiing or ice skating.  Private pleasures like the lambswool socks that hide themselves between my boots and my jeans, that only I know the pattern of.  How I can get away with not always taking off my gloves when I’m browsing around in places, and no one realizes that I have them on so I don’t actually have to touch anything.  The way I especially long to get all of my clothes off, every piece from every layer, as soon as I enter my home, and how nice it feels when I finally do.  The quietness of places once bustling with people, how I love being alone in them, or with just one other person, someone wonderful to talk to, someone wonderful to be silent with, who appreciates the solitary nature of this kind of togetherness.  

It often feels to me, in winter, like the world is holding its breath.  The part of the world enduring winter, that is.