My writings are always done
In a cold room in winter.
I can neither afford
Nor do I desire perpetual heat.
The electric fire I use
Would inhibit my creativity,
Counter my spiritual bias,
Drag me nearer the diabolic,
Which is ever hot.
I, however, require cold,
For it facilitates spiritual thought
And enables one to remain closer to the divine.
I am akin to Zarathustra,
With his cool-air heights,
And I wager that Nietzsche
Also spent many a day in a cold room.
Of course, I keep myself well-wrapped,
So as to ward off germs,
And generally I succeed in staying well.
But I would rather suffer
Periodic ill-health from the cold
Than lasting health
In front of the fire every day,
Since such a habit
Would not permit me to write as well
Or as profoundly as I do.
It would stultify me in no time,
Establishing, in place of my cool-air clarity,
A hothouse stuffiness
Injurious to clear thinking.
I would rather perish than become a vegetable.