My mind is a whirlpool and I am water, elusive and slippery. Endless circles of thoughts, feelings, and fears. A perfect storm. Keep slipping from between my fingers, with no firm grip on my self. Scattered, and everywhere, flowing away, stretching along the days, relentlessly. I have no ground. And if I think I can hold all of my currents inside my self, all contained within my ribcage (in a salt water pool with even tides and a sailboat beside my heart), I find there are always small leaks behind my ears or between my toes or at the corners of my eyes.
But winter is coming, I can feel it in the air, hear her name on the wind. I am waiting for the cold. The solidity and sureness of gleaming, strong ice. To become my own iceberg (and still that ship anchored beside my right ventricle, and the call of selkies under my lungs, safe and contained and calm).
I am waiting for my self to freeze.