I'm not a fan of the cold. In fact, I've often said I hate it.
I like feeling the rays of the sun on my skin. Squeezing my eyes while looking at the summer sun and watching those rays turn into long, shiny lines. I like warm showers, the water running through my hair and down my back. I like sleeping with only an old tshirt on and the window open, 'cause the heat is too much to handle. I have air con in my room, but I never turn it on. It just seems wrong.
However, there are times when I thank the universe for the cold. Very rarely, let me say, but it happens. Nothing beats walking in an empty town at 12.30 at night, breathing in as much cold air as your lungs can take. Keeping it in for a fraction of a second, feeling full, or at least less empty, before you let it out slowly, as slowly as you can, just like they've taught you when they explained to you how to prevent panick attacks. Focus on the breath, they said. And it sounded easy, at the time. It's just breathing, after all. How hard can it be? They didn't talk about the heart beating at full speed, the hands shaking, the head spinning with thoughts.
But there, in the cold, walking along an empty street, silence all around me, it finally seems easier to breath slowly. To focus on the breath.
And for a moment, I believe I can do it.