the icy path of self

You wander the terrain looking for construction. The building of your ideas, at least. I am here to see certain things, you tell yourself, and then you enumerate what you came for; the sum of all your lists is constructive, usually. Apples and mortgages, returned phone calls and love letters, profits and promises, promises, promises. But then you step over an abstraction. Literally. Beneath your feet, the very foundation of your support: imagination, twisted beyond recognition. What am I seeing? And why is what I am seeing not the same as what I am searching for? Those lucky people who unravel their imaginings as real life, skins they get to inhabit, shed and grow, they are always seeing worlds of possibility in their steps between responsibilities. It bothers me that I do not see this way enough; I make a note to self, telling myself to see more abstraction and less construct, but just this message is the sort of quicksand I am writing about now, in this weird cyclic way. I suppose this picture is about a path in the ice beneath my feet that allows me to walk away from myself, and I am showing it to you here as evidence that sometimes when I am lucky my imagination is working sharply enough to prod me into thinking this could be me, walking away from myself, from one edge of the frame to the other, without being stopped by any notion of a box. This path goes forever. It twists and straightens and falls and rises into a billion trillion possibilities. I could stand up right now, and endlessly change direction.

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