She Was.

Sometimes she thinks she falls asleep on a mattress thick with fluid hopes and warm arms draped over waists. She rests her head on pretty things and dreams of blueberry kuchen, wet noses and beer breath.

She doesn’t understand why she wakes up cold, in the dripping walls of her own igloo. She reminds herself that igloos are not always transient. Secretly, she likes the cast of the blue glow, and when she is honest she admits (if only to herself) that the circular shape of her dwelling comforts her. She thinks that there might be a metaphor in this, but her head is too fuzzy to be sure. She is surprised when in her research she discovers that the temperature inside an igloo is not as cold as one may think – depending on the heat source. She thinks that maybe, maybe, she is capable of generating enough body heat to thaw the air.

Other times, when she lies down, she thinks that perhaps she is adrift. Weightless and anchorless, her thoughts bob on the surface of a suprisingly dense liquid she would prefer to sink into. She doesn’t like this feeling of being adrift. She needs to be bound. To something, to someone, to a thought, an idea, even a signpost would do. She doesn’t know when she lost the ability to form knots. Her once dexterous fingers fumble and fail. She can’t tie herself to anything, not even sleep, and she wonders what all this means.