The Pond

January always seems to be so bleak; all things absorbed with thick blankets of snow and sleet. My cabin is but a speck compared to the desolate unknown. Looking past the long velvet drapes of my window, I see the pond.

The pond in winter is yet another unraveling sight, knowing the ice could crack beneath you at any given moment in time. At night, when my mind fades away, I often find myself jolting back into reality. I stand and let my feet touch the ground. It's refreshing to feel the dry, oak flooring instead of the piercing cold water that so generously filled my mind before.

The pond in winter likes to shriek when I tiptoe across, causing curiosity to die and fear take over. Every cry from the pond sends my whole body into shock. My arms stiffen up to my side, knees locked and lips purple, I hold a breath. My body as dead as the leaves on the trees surrounding, I take another step.

The pond in winter makes it hard to find things to occupy my mind. The fish that were once aimlessly swimming in circles are furthermore stuck beneath a foot of ice. The squirrels in their trees, remind me of myself — trapped in my cabin with too little distractions and too much free time. I sit by my window, as close to the pond as I'll consciously get, and forget that a person trapped in their mind is not a person yet.