Falling

It hasn't fallen this cold in ten years. It was ten years ago that I wore this woolen jacket. My hands are numb from action and find no comfort in the deep pockets lined with soft wool. I can't seem to keep my hands dry and warm even though there is a heater that's working overtime to make me comfortable. My feet are too cold to touch the icy floor, I'm stuck under a castle of quilts that weigh my heart down. The day outside is dreary and dark, the bare branches of the tree are stark and ugly. They stretch out and rub against the electric cables and both sway in a icy gust of wind. My brain is freezing over, it's making me think of summer in Delhi, equally miserable. It's showing me that atleast weather-wise, I'll never find love and life here. Even though I have had to, till now. My ears are keening silently in pain, the tips have turned a lovely pink. I try and turn, the weight of the blankets, heaped over me, are making it difficult to breathe, let alone move. I can feel myself sinking into the softness of the pillow, the hardness of the mattress, losing a grasp on the cold, miserable world. I think i'm dying, in the coldest winter, in ten long years.
I have waited ten years to die. Ten years to fall asleep under a mountain of blankets. Ten years of cold-less winters. Ten years of patient heat. It is the perfect month to die in, December, when the world dies a natural death, to be born again. The trees die and so do the bacteria. The hapless beggar on the road dies, the bloody victim of a car crash dies. Some die of gun wounds, some die of malignant tumors. Some die for fun, some die for love and hatred. It's the perfect weather to die in. No one can hear you die. In heat, there is a sense of action and haste all the time, every hour of the day. In the cold, there is silence and silence can only aid the death process. It's a subtle change of being, almost imperceptible. Afterall it's only a new form of numbness, an advanced stage of numbness from the world. I have waited ten years for this numbness, this cold to set in. I have waited ten years to die.
I died a long time ago, when they killed me. But I have lived on, under blankets, for ten years. I have come back to life briefly, only to die again. It's one last feeling of life before I lose it altogether. The last time I felt this alive was when I bled from my neck and chest and forehead, where they had stabbed me. The flow of blood, red, thick, luscious, was proof of my existence, that I had lived for twenty years. It was cold then and numb, like it is today, ten years later. I have no memory of pain or medicine or horror. No memory of life ebbing away, no memory of comfort or tranquillizers. I only remember dying, and dying in the cold, on a cold stony road. Its easier to die in the winter. It's more beautiful, more serene, less complicated. The summer is a mad dash to finish everything and move on, move constantly so that the heat can't hold you captive. The cold is a languid emotion, numb yet sparklingly clear. I can feel my weightless life float away, my weightless death float away in the crisp, spiked winter air. In a season when everything dies, I will too. The cold has decorated my body, with wrinkles and dry swathes of skin. My cheeks lie in dry, silvery folds, my chin is registered with little cuts, the blood in them is frozen in the cold. My eyes are watering as the icy blast from the window is caressing the white of the eye, turning it to stone. My lungs are filling with this clear cold air, and expanding in joy. My heart is pumping faster, exhausting itself before it stops completely. My hands and feet are slowly numbing, freezing over, turning into unmelting blocks of ice. My mind is wandering, not over my life, but my death, how I have waited for ten years to die in the stifling cold.
I've looked foward to death since I died. I have waited ten years to die beautifully. The world's pace is negligible. It's not moving because it's too cold to move. It's ironical how everyone is playing dead just before I actually die. Time seems frozen and so does emotion.There is nothing to be sad about. I am a happy casualty, a happy death.