Cold Sweat

I woke up in the middle of last night soaking wet, literally able to wring liquid out of the tank top in which I slept. I lie in bed evaluating the situation for a few moments, disoriented. Was it dry enough to sleep in, could I just take it off and sleep bare chested? No, the sheets were wet, too, and I remembered the lumpy sensation in my throat from the day before, a sure sign I'm coming down with something. So I fumbled through some drawers, blind, put on another nightie and bundled up again in the driest spot I could find between the sheets.

The sensation of cold sweat is something, isn't it. It implies that, at one point, things were hot, very hot. While you slept, comfortably, your body made beads. The cocoon you slept in increased their production, and you began to steam. It might have been lovely, depending on your propensity for warmth. But then, for some reason, the heat vanished and you awoke, startled at how cold things had turned. Vulnerable, in danger of getting sick, you woke yourself up to go about equalizing things back to normal.

There is a metaphor here. For me, the most immediate one is love. Hot, incubatory and lulling. Addictive in its comforts, producing all kinds of secretions of a physical and spiritual nature. Then gone, replaced by chills in the dark. Poetic but expected, no?

With further thought I find that it applies to a few areas of my life, and I am sure it applies to a few of yours. I'll let you fill in the blanks. And, as always, if you'd like to share the filling, please do.