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you know how in winter, when ice forms where puddles would be? the blissful joy and sheer satifaction of cracking that ice? the sound of the ice shattering beneath the soles of your boots. the ice puddles, seconds ago so solid, sunlight reflections bouncing off each glassy surface, now lay in ruins. empty holes amongst the melting shards; like hatched eggs, only nothing is born.
you wish for more puddles. you wonder if you can find one that nobody else has reached. you hope it rains and fills the broken ones. and then you wait for the big freeze.
but how foolish to think that these individual ice pools will ever offer the same satisfaction. they are only so pure, so perfect, once; yet they call to you and claim to offer everything that came before. they call to you in their icy whisper...
break me
you contemplate; broken puddles can never really be fixed. you slide your boot across the surface to move the dustlike snowflakes. a better look inside. you tap at the ice with your toe. beneath the thin veil of secondhand ice you can still see the remains of yesterday's break. you know you could crack it; but there would be no gratification.
instead you walk away.... |
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