When you miss winter, your skin loosens. The tightening exercises can only occur between November and March. The bus stop between two factory buildings is the perfect practice spot. One streetlight above, flurries of small white angled past the yellow haze. Darkness is darker, without a star in the sky or car on the street. There's a bus pass in your pocket, where it will remain until the bus lumbers up to your salty curb and you've taken two whole steps onto the shelter-vehicle. The warmth is almost like a gust, so medicating and relieving. Then the gloves are whipped off with two firm yanks, placed tightly in your armpit. You dig out the bus pass. It's steamy on the windows. It smells musty. Maybe it's somebody's clothes, or maybe the cold sweat stuck under the seats. But it's worth it. Because out there, it's death. White death.
We brace it every few months. Death breathes directly into our eyes, between the hat and scarf. And we squint. But when we beat it, we celebrate. We look back on winter without a hint of fondness. We curse it, stick our middle fingers at it and smile victorious.
I have joy still. Even a longing. But mine is not a desire, but a prophecy. My theology has taken a break, and I curse the faith I am stuck with. While some pray for more faith, I sharpen my nails in hopes of peeling away at some of my virtue. If ever there was a time to become a Calvinist. I would happily curse God and die, but He keeps me here for reasons I cannot comprehend. He and I both know that I will not be a shepherd. We know that I do not encourage others. Maybe He just likes my spunk. Maybe I'm cute.
Support the troops!
Oh the gospel. Oh the things that we cannot disagree with. They are so vile.
"So you disagree! Is that it!"
I do not disagree, I neutralize. Fools are simply those who argue. You will never hear a wise person talking politics. You will not hear it. And if you are a politician, you know you are not wise. But continue doing your work, because you fill a niche in our society. We need dishonesty, and you provide it. I say these things with sincerity, because I can only lie when I write.
Once anything is written, it is a loss of truth. This does not mean words have no meaning, that's a topic for undergrad students and dipshits. But everything you read here has gone through a filter. You are not the first person to experience this. There is a great chance that everything you know is a facade. It's cheesy to recall the Truman Show or The Matrix amidst such an inspired paragraph, but at least those are stories.
What we have here is bullshit. We do not have a story but rather a man in need of expression. He has not slept in days, and his bony fingers tremble in the shower. This man believes in freedom, and becomes bored as he lives out his beliefs. So a feigned hypocrisy emerges as a result of his boredom. Just to feel riled, to feel despised.
But he's smart. He knows too damn well that he will not ruin his life. He couldn't become reckless if he wanted to. Cold weather is so far from him, and he couldn't be more disappointed.