Thin Ice

Quiet sighs and quick goodbyes, and road-less-traveled-bys have me wondering— why are the biggest storms named after people? I could fall for a tornado, get lost in the beauty of its eye, and dance with it— until the storm runs dry. Or until I die. I was standing on the thin ice between falling in love and falling for lies, only, I couldn’t tell which it was. But I ended up finding the solid rock on which I stand— only, stepping off feels like the only way to be who I am— (not who I’m meant to be). And sometimes, I see the freezing waters in my dreams, and they call me back. I think I’m still directionally challenged, because I forget— they never answered my calls, much less called me back. New year, new me— yeah, well, I disagree. You can make a new playlist and call it what you like, but at the end of the day— it’s the same old songs with different artists. The same game with a different name. Funny. It’s not a game, but it’s a "play" list. Riddle me this: Why do I feel like the lead in a show that keeps changing characters, but never the plot? Same lessons. Same wins. Same losses. And I’m so tired of losing. Now— if I could just remember which way the fourth wall was, I could finally shatter it— like thin ice...