The cold, unlike most people I find these days, does not make me shrivel up under countless layers of clothing and tremble in an unforbiding ache. It does not make me tired and want to stay at home, or even stay inside for that matter. It does not make me complain and wish for warmer weather.
       I love the cold. I admire it. It makes me feel alive. Sending small tingles through my spine, igniting an urge to run. An urge to go do something remarkable. The cold gives me inspiration, energy, and even comfort. Comfort that I am a part of something so much bigger than I am. A beautiful composition of a cycle that is beyond comprehension. And that makes me feel significant, with the contrary of a scarce absence of fear or worry.
       But most of all, the cold reminds me of him. Not of pain or bitterness, but of excitement. Of something intriguing I can never, but will always try, to figure out. The cold reminds me of him, and how much he loves that chilling sense of freedom, as I love him. And how he is so at peace with nature, as I find that same serenity in the frost. And how, we are at one with the cold.