frigid

there's something in the air that saps the will out of me. the outdoors are supposed to be a vast expanse, promising, inviting. when the frosty breath of nature meets me at the doorstep, i find little reason to exist. even my own exhalations conspire against me, clouding my way, or leaving an unmistakable trail for the brute whose only aim seems to be my destruction. that cold isn't an external force, or it doesn't simply work from the toes and slowly take me over. it rots away at me from the inside.

habit becomes memory

i feel like i haven't seen the outside world in weeks.  there isn't much point.  the stares, constant pushing past me, noises i can't follow.  in a year or two, i promise i'll be better.  no more of this defeatism.