The nights are growing cold here, and I’m using old memories to kindle a little warmth.
Just enough to feel my fingertips, to not let my heart freeze over.
There was a time when I would have lit a blazing fire, enough to outlast the wintry winds, the night shivers. There was a me who would have fed off of the warmth of another time, who would have nurtured back to life the smouldering remains of dying fires.
But you see, I am not this me anymore. I am brave enough now to venture into the cold, to let the chill crawl up my bare arms and invigorate me.
Now, if I want warmth, I have just enough spirit to reach for it, trusting that it will not burn.
(Because that’s the thing about memories, isn’t it? They warm without burning. But you can never tell what it will be with the present, you can only experience the full shock of it when it happens.)