Every night I sleep in heat as if I’ve gone back into the womb. Nothing hurts, and everything feels good.
But every day, I am born again, and I exit the womb crying, feeling the coldness and the pain that comes with it; the pain of life, the pain of reality. And yet I know I must feel this pain. For I must live. For staying in the womb is not life, it’s avoidance.
Staying in the womb for want of not being hurt, of not losing joy, or of not growing up hard, without laughter, and without love, is very tempting. And yet every day, despite all that, I leave, for the gelid reality.
And every night I do it backwards; I go back to the place where all my dreams are true – my mind, my womb. Back to the place with infinite warmth, comfort, and food. All attained without ever having to lift a finger, the ultimate vacation.
All renounced in the morning, for a world which hates, which pummels, and which freezes to death. Freezes with it’s unkindness, it’s shunning, and it’s underlying cruelty. All forms of unhurried torture that make one forget the warmth of the womb too soon. Yet all making you remember it the more, for yearning of it. The only thing holding you together being the realization that hypothermic is not something you want to be.
The only thing holding you together being the daily routine; walking forward towards the cold, doing it backwards to the warmth, doing it again tomorrow, and through it all desperately hoping that the temperature change doesn’t break you.