my thought cathedral

It is prescribed, in this nondescript state, to wait thirty minutes if you don't like the weather. I awoke this morning in a chill, as the temperature went from a seasonal balmy forty degrees to a more biting four degrees (18 below with wind) overnight.

I am a shadow (voluntary) of Ann Frank, though not Jewish (except by faith), in the attic of this house where two walls vault to a point; a cathedral of thought and sleep and uncertainty. I do not fear for my life, that is, not with respect to any sort of physical death. Certainly the comforts of modern society do not elude me, except for heat (it is 57 degrees here), in this finished space. The television is focused on the news programs I find so intriguing on Sunday morning: the greek; the one who replaced a beloved chubby fellow; and a rather large dwarf.

I struggle to maintain feeling in my fingers, which contract and relax in hopes of circulating more blood. I have layered my clothes, a sweater over a sleeved shirt over another shirt and two layers of pants. Also I sit, when so inclined, under two blankets. My face bothers not to expound upon the pain, but remains blank, almost in shock at the current circumstances. The warm coffee I sip helps to alleviate some of the chills, but seems to do more to keep my guts warm than my skin. It is often said that you will not see me without a cup of coffee in hand, it is my partner in crime and captivity.

The room, as I said before, is finished, but the walls do not contain the itchy insulation that accompanies rooms labeled as such, but they are covered in that retro wood paneling that reminds me of my childhood home, except that room had a wood stove to keep you warm on such cold days. The ceiling is low, but the room is deep. I have plenty of space to maintain adequate accomadations for myself. I am not reliant upon the fancier things found in homes these days.

I am alone in my space, and people rarely make it up here- I find analogies of life in almost anything I write. All perception of truth is the detection of an analogy. -Thoreau.
My face is unshaven, and sparse, with sunken cheeks from a recent lack of bountious food. It is unassuming, perhaps reassuring, though it maintains a quality often associated stone. My eyes, placed above a slightly spanish nose, are blue or green depending on the day and fit my face well. The cleft in my chin is, as most other features, modest and I often find it a point for my index finger to massage- either that or the angular scar above my right eye, though it is used more for plotting and calculations.

Perhaps another blanket, or layer of clothes, or food will help keep me warm. But alas, I should probably only wait a time (thirty minutes!) for the weather to change and then I should be fine.