Oh freedom of the frozen lake, freedom of the captive waves. You are out there again, gliding on the icy crust of winter waters, secure and happy with your skill, your blades biting into the ice, sending off small crystals with each kick.
Your blades bite the ice, they disturb what’s underneath. The fishes stir from their rest and look up in wonder, trying in vain to decipher the patterns you leave on their roof as you glide past. They grow restless, they bend their silver bodies, their scales shine and sparkle bright from the sun reflected by your steel blades. But you bid hasty farewell to these confused dwellers of the waters, you cannot stay, you have to move on, and you move on, across virgin ice that’s now creamy white and now opaque black, you move forth and and you move back, across time and memory.
And you are a little boy sitting on a bank of wet snow at the lakeside, nose running, fingers fumbling with the laces, eyes escaping to the ice, eager to join the others there. And later, deeper into the night the way you like it now, there are girls on the ice with blushed cheeks and flowing hair, and that budding softness to their movements that’s starting to draw your eyes. Later still you seek to see further, seek the edges of the icy plains where that thin dark stripe lines the horizon. You’re alone now, and you gauge the distance, think of how to make the weary journey, of what lies in waiting in the dark when you finally arrive.
You now turn to look back, and tracks on the distance covered take you again to that little boy. Is this something he wished to see, is this what he longed for as he rushed to the ice, is this the promise of the first crystals fulfilled. But what have you made of his eyes, where is the freedom of the captive waves?