Winter is a beautiful deceit.
The night has stretched its languid body into the day. She has finally awakened. Her cold deviancy sedates me as I prowl through the shadows at growing intervals.
I don’t mind the winter. She rolls in, seductive, threatening to make her way into the spaces left unattended. She is the evil mistress, she is the bad influence, she forces you into submission, she dares you to escape her grip.
I don’t mind her anger, it’s well-placed and passionate. The only bit of heat I have to hold onto until she surrenders in embarrassment to spring. This time, many dread, flea from, and deny. But I embrace her. I relate. The fear others have of my power, my intensity that lays frost to the ego. Contrary to summer, winter holds grudges, she remembers, she doesn’t boast, but she makes herself known.
These nights are my sanctuary, isolated in my desires, disrobed of my assumptions. In a perpetual state of the hunt. Vigilance and deceit.