January 24, 2011:
Ice; a substance capable of frailty and delicacy, but always cold.
Smooth, slick, see-through,
A frozen shell of water,
Encasing, trapping, holding,
Free liquid still within.
I look down this bottle's neck,
I watch the water move.
A single air bubble trapped beneath
A pane of ice.
That's me sometimes.
Feelings: all below the surface.
Appearance: structured and controlled.
Take a moment, take a breath,
Decide the words which say the most.
The first of the water slips below its confines,
Pooling beneath and then sliding around the edges.
The heart of the matter in my bottle,
Clear and cool.
I watch as the water collects,
The air bubble grows before my eyes,
How similar, and yet how different,
To the way I process emotions.
Pressure to the bottle's wall,
A crack inside the ice.
Clear cross from left to right,
The split grows.
Fractures of control.
I am reminded of how frail it is,
How delicate the cage the ice has made.
But in the end the truth remains,
That ice is always cold...
The cynic inside me can't help but to append,'How very like humanity.'
Truth be told I usually don't see the world in quite so dark a light, but there are days when even the brightest bouts of sunshine can't warm me. I'm sure there are other people who feel that way. I know, in fact, because I've spoken to some recently. At any rate, that... poem (I'm hesitant to call it such)... is a somewhat disorganized collection of thoughts inspired by the ice in my semi-frozen water bottle today.
Sometimes I wonder why my mind thinks the way it does. Other times I just accept it.