I used to worry that my heart might be ice, or that it may become so. So I worked with chisel and hammer, trying to find a spot to tap through and let some light inside, to melt a bit of the ice away. In a small area, I worked through several layers, when I finally broke through I was surprised to find smoke billowing out. I peered in, and saw not the core of ice I had expected, but one of fire.
And suddenly I remembered that it had always been so, that I was the one who long ago had built up thin layers of ice all around it. That it was the fire that I feared, for if unleashed it might burn a hole through me, through my life, mere kindling, ruthlessly consumed, devouring whatever it pleases, devasting me in its massive glow.
Not made of ice, made of fire.
Trickier to navigate now in some ways, I still have to tap through and reach it, feel some of its heat in my life, but I can't fully release it. I need both. I have to work at the balancing of the elements, tempering the fire, but not extinguishing it with snow.
I have made several holes through. But sometimes I get scared, the fire fed by oxygen, licks at the ice around the holes, and the ice starts melting, and I feel the burning within me, so then I spread thin sheets of ice over them, covering them back up, cooling down. I feel safer, but I feel less, and begin to worry I will eventually grow numb, so I go back and make the little holes again.