The cold emanated from inside her, and nothing she did on the outside seemed to change that.
Everything felt damp. Wet, her hair stuck to her neck and her shirt to her back.
The humidity was high, but the sweat that escaped from her pores could more aptly be described as tears. When a broken heart cried, those salty tears must fall somewhere.
Besides, she was too cold for sweat.
These thoughts were playing on the edges of her thoughts, but she pushed them aside as she ate her meager breakfast. Dry toast without a hint of butter or jam.
It wasn't a diet. It wasn't even a choice for frugality, as she had both butter and jam in the refrigerator. The lack of flavor on her toast was more about avoiding the decision. Butter or jam. Raspberry or strawberry. With peanut butter or without.
Sometimes it was easier to do nothing.
Nothing but think. Daydream. Question old decisions.
She heard a noise outside, but did not move. That wold was not a part of her anymore. Or, she, not a part of it. She was much happier in this place with no decisions, heavy socks on her feet and a damp, cotton shirt clinging to her back.
Comfort means little in a world of dreams. Comfort is what you imagine in your mind, and if you concentrate hard enough, those imaginations might become more.
She had become expert in blocking out the things that were really real, just like she shoved aside the thoughts that did not fit her story lines and the questions that...questioned. She drank deeply of a glass of water that might have come from a mountain spring (it didn't) and imagined herself deep in the woods. Alone.
These woods would be her world for the day. A place of quiet and peace.
This imagination would be her comfort.
What brings comfort to your world?