This is a foggy world and with my cold hands I explore it’s lack of substance; searching for that question, that answer, that thing that resonates with me.
These secret hours of the night whisper a dark enigma that only we can understand. But we’re not sure if the glass is half empty or half full. We’re not sure if Van Gogh represents a starry night or a bloodied ear. We’re not even sure if we’re dumb, or just numb.
But in this light – or lack of – there’s space to pause and there’s space to reflect. Take the dull things and ignite them with our cold hands, warm heart.
It’s nonsensical and incoherent but so are we. It’s rambling. It’s just words. Lacking a rhythm, finding it’s pace.
Foggy world. Cold hands. Whisper. Enigma. Van Gogh. Stars. Numb. Light. Space. Pause.
We aren’t lost. In order to be lost, you have to know where you’re headed. But what’s the point of these dangerous years and these intense emotions if not to figure that out?
Like Bambi on the ice, we’re learning to walk, and this might not make sense now and it might not make sense ever, but that’s okay because your voice is allowed to shake and your blood is allowed to boil.
It’s not midnight but it’s cold and dark and it might as well be. We just want to walk. Down the row of the streetlights. Maybe speaking too loud, or maybe not speaking at all. Empty pockets catering for cold hands. Cold hands that might, one day, be warmed by the heart of someone who too thought they were always destined for ice.
This is a fictional response to the prompt: ice.