In a perpetual cycle of fixation, I feel like a lost interest, an extraneous pawn. My hope is disintegrating, and my ambiguity-tainted wingspan makes for a sedentary position in the deeply rooted works of the earth.

Wrists in shackles, ankles in mud, my steps are stuttering, and the only thing I’m muttering are indistinct words no one can clutch. My chest feels hollow but trembles with nerves and overwhelming thoughts that nitpick any one of my spoken sounds or actions. There is never an escape no matter how much sage I smudge and no matter how many wicks I set to flame. It grows at every waking second, hindering my movement. 

My battery is low, and my tension is high, pricking me like the thorn of a crippled rose trying to grow in heaps of frozen precipitation. The thorns mend to the fibers of my sweater, exposing me to further freezing. Ice on my lips and frozen in the hips, and nothing seems to be left but my torn-up sweater and my starkness. I am now just cold.

I turn to my blankets, but they can no longer bear my presence; my keyboards can’t stand the sight of my fingerprints, and my front-facing camera needs a sabbatical. My possessions have relinquished my presence.

But with my self-proclaimed marginalization, I relish in my independence even if it stains my sleeves with woe. I have overstayed my welcome in the hands of some of my possessions, but the others do not mitigate my companionship.

I think the car’s steering wheel is used to my patting palms, and the aux cord has found a liking in my songs. Even though the speakers are not fond of the boisterous base I intentionally crank up, I think they will get used to it at some point. Certain neighborhoods welcome my name, and my favorite stores recognize my agonizingly long decision-making time on purchasing items I do not need.

Even though my sweater gave up on me and roses claw at my ego, I will find a new sweater to gratify my warmth. A fresh flower—a columbine—to heal me. I catch myself red-handed as if my arms are in the oven and exchange my flaming extremities for a level mind.

My mind torques continuously attempting to decipher every word spoken or anything in my line of vision. It blurs my sight. But I switch on the windshield wipers and rinse the fog from my mind. I am not stuck in the mud, and my wrists are not bound. I can move freely and independently without the constant ache of feeling irrelevant. 

My body is thawing and newly nimble. I no longer place myself on the back burner. I fill up my supposed lonesome and lack of inspiration with laughter and movement. My fingers tickle the stars, and they remind me of who I am and where I’m meant to be.

Sooner or later, winter will cease, and the crescendos of spring will bring green saturations to the trees and spawn new life. The heavy weight brought on by ice and wind chill will no longer surround me. I can pick flowers and embrace the smell of warm rain on the pavement.

Even if I do not have physical accompaniment, it is never just me. I have the flashing indigo birds that perch on staggering branches and the winding ivy on oak trees that fold in the breeze presented to me by my window. I really love my window. I have my connections and passions that center me, and my newfound outlook and gentrified mind enable me to germinate. My new sweater embraces me and comforts every doubt, every calamity that racks my thoughts.

When all is said and done, maybe I’m just overthinking it. Although I might just be a speck of dust, I find that there is a lot of beauty to be known in that.