Chill

Just made myself a vodka - a dash of lemon, a broken green chilli, just the way I like it. Nothing to romanticise. It's just to beat the cold that's creeping up through my toes, and settling down on my nose tip. It's not exactly as I had pictured such a night as a teen. Then, there would be a soft-glow neon light and Chopin, I would be in something silky, skimpy - certainly not in blue socks and cheetah pajamas - and my job would be way better. I guess dreams (the day kinds) come true in a warped way. The two things that are same are the glass of vodka and the slight tipsy-typing on the comp. Except that, back then, I was penning (read typing) a story, a classic. In reality, I am still not in bed because the sheets will be so cold that I'm scared, and because, for the third day in a row I had dinner alone.
Which should also be fine, because in that beautiful imaginative picture, too, I was on my own. As of now, I don't fancy that so much as I did in my head. So, a little while ago, I stood out on the balcony, feeling all mystical staring out at the fog blanket. Got bitten by a few mosquitos, and froze. Decided that fog looks sexy in Wuthering Heights and Harry Potter. And faraway flickering flames lit by someone trying his best to beat the cold - they look awesome, spellbinding - just would've been better without the smoke drift.
To be honest, I love it all. The smoke that chokes me, the chill that scares me, the fog that can cause traffic delays, the icy bedsheets (not so much the mosquitos). Together, they make a crazy mosaic of life. Soft wool, socks with five toes, hot chocolate, dashing in and out of the shower, tracking the dropping temperature graph, sudden peek of the sun usualy once a week, an odd drizzle that sends the mercury zipping down even more.