Frostbite, lovers and whores...

I fear that I am becoming boring. Others might suggest that it is a founded fear and possible a "johnny come lately" fear, because maybe I have already arrived. I used to tell myself that it is called comfortable. Without attention, comfortable becomes complacent and complacency not attended to breeds bitterness and anger.

I have spent the better part of the last two decades in an emotional winter freeze. It's often easier to feel numb than caustic anger or knife-sharp bitterness. I remember when I was little I would spend over a half and hour getting all of my winter gear on so that I could go out to play in the snow. Snow rarely lasts long in this area of the country and you are never guaranteed there will be another lasting snow before spring arrives. You have to eek every minute of play out of the wet, white powder. We would grab our sleds and head to the nearest hill and sled until we were frozen and stiff. When we got home we would peel off the wet clothes and our cold, red skin would suffer the sensation of a hundred bee stings. Our fingers, near frostbite, would tingle and then burn until eventually the feeling returned.

That has been my life over the last year. As my capacity for feeling has returned it has gone through the same process of hovering near death, tingling and then burning before the feelings return. Each situation invites the beginning of this process or one similar to it.

I realized today that sometimes I engage in behaviors, either consciously or unconsciously, that offer me the opportunity to "feel". I admit it; many times the ragged edges of feeling are what remind me that I'm alive. I used to use pain in the same way. Our senses (touch, taste, smell, see, hear) are an amazing part of who we are. The dance of pleasure and pain teases me and often lulls me into hypnotic repetitions. The stimulation of the sensual can either be a lover or a whore. Sometimes my motive is pure love and other time, without thinking, I place the wad of cash in the palm of my conscience and prostitute my soul.