The Icicle

I always feel fragile when I lie in the snow. I get so cold but I love it in a strange sort of way. Sometimes I pretend I am an icicle. I lay there and can feel how transient I am. I taper down to a gentle point; I glisten in the sun. I do not feel threatened by the few drips that slide down me every now and then. I am here for the winter; that is all that matters.

He came across me when I was thus supinely and silently reveling in the snow and dreaming my frozen thoughts. I shot straight upright when I noticed him. He looked confused for a few seconds, then his lips creased into a smile. A knowing smile. As if he knew what had been doing, lying there. I nervously tucked some hair behind my ear. It was caked with snow and some of it dropped back to the ground. He looked as if he was about to say something but I panicked. I turned and ran.

Oh, how silly I am. In my heart of hearts, I am just a woodland creature who can’t understand that all humans do not wish to mistreat me.
Finally, when I had retreated far into the forest, I collapsed in the snow and lay there for a while. But I didn't pretend to be an icicle anymore. Do you know why? For when he looked at me with that smile on his face... I melted.

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This is an excerpt from a book I am writing. The book is made up of two parts. One part is about a introverted girl who lives for trips to the library and becomes infatuated with one of the librarians. (I admit, it is ridiculously autobiographical.) In the book, the girl is writing a story about a girl who lives in a forest. The chapters about the girl in the forest are interspersed throughout the book and they vaguely tie in with the story of the girl who is "writing them". I am doing a horrible job explaining... It sounds rather stupid and I'm not even sure how well it will work. But I enjoy writing it and I s'pose that's all that matters. :)

(And I'd like to thank you all again for your kind responses to my last post. So far, I am feeling very well. I love you all and you mean the world to me!)

{Picture found here.}

For the dreamers.

I am not a leader and I have never been much of a follower.
What does that make me then?

I am... a dreamer! Yes, I am a dreamer; I make my own world and demand no one join me there. A leader would want subjects; I am not a leader.
I am not a follower. True, I am unassuming but I will not languish in waiting for someone else to do something I may not even like. Quietly, I will disappear and travel to the beatings of my own thoughts.
I am not a rebel. Well, I am really. Dreamers are gentle, starry-eyed rebels. We care not for mundanitites and rules. Our rebellion is not loud or brazen, but filled with sounds of raindrops and rose-whispers. Our respectful defiance is misunderstood as rebellions must be.

Those who are not dreamers find us exasperating. They look in scorn at our flushed faces from dancing in the meadows. They regard our snowflake stained eyes with suspicion.
"Why??" they ask. They don't know how much it helps.
With annoyance, they survey our bare toes. Knowing we have been dabbling them in a pool of fairy tales, they are afraid we might drip on their spotless carpet.

But we try not to care what the ignorant people think. We are introspective but not self-centered. For we find the company of other dreamers to be invaluable... we need to be understood as well!

If you are reading this, I feel sure you must be a dreamer. This blogging world feels like a secret society of dreamers and I am so glad I stumbled upon it. I love you all. {Just so you know.}



{Photograph by Rodney Smith.}