My mind is shooting out words that don’t exist so my thoughts are unable to translate into anything outside of myself. That leaves me misinterpreted as a translucent sheet of ice, but, actually I am opaque and dense and dark. I am, in fact, as black as midnight, a mixing pot of anything and everything, a dismantling and welded together of, what are forced to become, paraxial pieces. My words are gas for them and therefore they don’t exist as more than a passing inhale, digested, used, and gone. But my thoughts leave my existence clouded by their chained estranged infantry to my god damn mind. My thoughts therefore become real through the debilitating power they have, the alienated existence they possess, the gas they embody which suffocates my entire reality. Thoughts that they don’t know, can’t know, will never know because the words formulating them don’t exist. Forever fostering a storm of intangibility determining an inevitable madness within because who wouldn’t become mad if trapped inside of their self with the compiling weight of words left unspoken? But the words can’t be spoken because they are created in the language of my mind. That language only exists among my thoughts and is unable to be translated to them because the words only make sense in the realm of my own reality.
So instead I abandon the idea of the mind, thoughts, alienation, and the failure of these elements to actually exist. Instead, I look to melt my heart, my many hearts. The one in my chest, the one in my gut. Leg heart. Calf heart. Heart Heart. A powerhouse control center for each pulsing activity which dictates my physical existence. My leg heart, frozen as all of my hearts are from a winter formed from years of manipulation, annihilation, culmination of false truths. My leg heart must melt so that the pillars of solid ice can become water. They must be water if I am to move, to run, to dance, to swim in the form that once was my legs. If I was to move now shattered shards of ice made glass would crumble beneath the weight of my frozen body and leave my face heart plastered against the hard pavement with the blood of my head heart pouring down the grey ground and steam forming to note the process of the rising temperatures. Warm pavement meaning the winter of passed traumas is gone and as a result leaves a pool of red leaking from my head heart’s icy center and a mosaic of painted glass surrounding what once was two pillars, my legs, my statue legs, my frozen legs. It was the collapse of the hearts that began the melting promising the future of Spring.
But snow is still falling and I find my mind swimming in the magic that exists inside each individual flake. Each unique, complex, different. Each with their own story and yet together is when they start of become seen, formulating a blanket of white which cloaks a dark and somber world. I walk in the snow, the flurries melting in my hair and hands. They are frozen and I am not because I am warm and I melt them. Maybe it is only within me that Spring is beginning to arrive and everything around me is still living in a never-ending winter? The snow paints me with wonder and incomprehensible excitement for the complexity of the one dropping the flakes. I look up with certainty that these flakes are for me because I understand the language in which they fall. It is the language of the heavens, of the universe, of the other worlds. The ones of angels and demons and God and Andy. The one where that which doesn’t make sense is real. Pain and heartbreak and trauma and illness, makes sense under the language of snow because the snow speaks of a collective beauty comprised of individual artistic masterpieces. So in the context of the white, even the darkest of experiences become stunningly beautiful. Suddenly the words which my mind is shooting out, the one’s which don’t exist, I can become exceedingly grateful for because it is through my comprehension of the language of snow that I come to realize I am living a four dimensional existence in a three dimensional world and that is a magical thing.