The Mist

I move so fast, with so much power I soar through the cutting wind; the air so much colder when I am not surrounded by myself.

Suddenly hardened I fall hard on the other pieces of myself that have coated the world, strange to be a part of something and then a part of the same something, but different.

I am different.

I am also the same.

So very much the same.

And so very different.

Now I reflect the sun blinding the creatures that slip and slide on the other parts of me. They laugh and squeal at this different kind of beauty. Before they would marvel at the incessant pounding of my power, I have always been so very full of power but it has been liquid, amorphous. Now, now I have hardened in fractals, I am unmoving. I have made it into the cracks of the world and I am expanding.

I wonder, briefly if I will ever go back to moving quickly. If this blinding white world will go back to its greens and browns. It was softer then. I was softer then, though less singular, less insulated, a part of something.

A part of something moving forward.

I think, when I go back, for I am sure to go back, someday. We all go back to the water eventually.

I will enjoy being less singular.

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