I pray to Xipe Totec with fingers laced with papercuts and the dust of manila folders underneath my nails. We’re far from the spring equinox, actually just barely on the edge of autumn, and I’m thirsty for change. For something new to be peeled back from this skin that my bones have not quite grown into (I have wrinkles to prove it).
The winter always feels that way. The cold seems to readjust my vision and I start to see–start to feel— different.
Walking down cold, freshly-wet streets, leaves strewn all over, wind chasing chills under my clothes, I feel alive in a way that’s not at all like the warm revelry of summer. Introspection gets sharper, less generous.
And hungrier. Above all, I get hungrier during the winter. Not only for food. For everything.