no one ever actually said it really happened. you read the history and yet you still glossed over the fact that it calcified into mythology.
it was meant to happen over and over again. nietzschean recurrence. a letter to whom it may concern. nothing personal.
you
were
warned
and still put your hand in the snow
summoned the Thurs
and when you finished walking with the ice giants and the snowcaps faded, the shard of ice remained in your heart
frosted tears searing skin became a liability so you learned to forget how to cry
and yet you still carried the two ice cores
they melted so you could drink pure water
until your purity became poverty
it became the dominant obsession: die in a cave somewhere in the himalayas
where not even the clouds can seek you out
and then it became the andes
and the obsession with harvesting the cloud, farming fog for her essence
here, only here, with her touch, did you learn the secret of the wind, she wrings even frost dry and takes her wages in the most lachrymal sense
…
it was wind magick that made the ice give way
you cannot see your reflection as clearly in the snow and ice as you can in the thawed lake
you once again have permission to feel again
ill always have your back
– your shadow
