I'm fearful of the monster my mind has become. Of the empathy it lacks, of the emotion that has run dry. I'm fearful of how well it poses as something genuine and real, of how it takes on chameleon forms of those who are, only to hide nothing beneath its shallow surface but snow and sleet; the only force of reckoning being the hollow sense of self that avalanches forward everyday, lurching over rocks and trees of being and bliss that have long since stopped inspiring and growing. The mind is frozen solid, landlocked by icy barriers that no longer allow passage in or out of a suspended center port.
          And with outside influence shrouded by these avalanches, the mind turns inward and blank. And as the ice thickens evermore, the potential energy of the heart is lessened, subtracted. Requiring from it an ever-growing and ever-increasing demand of force and emotive-kinetic energy to shatter those walls so ice-cold and mammothonian.
          But ice-ages do not last forever, and sleeping giants do indeed recover soundly beneath the snowpack. And choking and suffocating as the white may be, one must only need survive until the thaw comes. So fearful as I may be of the monster, I give prayer to the giant and his recovery, slow and steady as it may be.