I can’t write. I can’t sleep. There goes more of the wine, and some chocolate, and I’m surrounded by walls of boxes. Then I sleep. I sleep more deeply than I have in ages, but the dreams make no sense; I’m used to that, this week. I see ends and beginnings and snowfall piled high, but here the ground is still slick and dirty with old ice and slush. I’m skidding and falling in slow motion, but I don’t remember if I left my backpack on to break the fall; I can’t feel my arms.

So, yoga. Breathing. Moving. My joints pop and crack. “You have extra Vata energy,” my teacher says this morning. I feel too light, but not the unbearable lightness of being. This is the light of being no more than a shimmer on the slick city streets, and a transient force until the sun drops behind another high rise building. Will they miss me when I’m gone? Will I matter? I had a place and chose to find another place because this place was chipping away to form the ice sculpture that my soul became over the past three years. I don’t like the statute that’s half finished, fortunately,from these exertions, but until the sun really comes out, uninhibited, it’s not going to melt.

It’s colder here than it has been in a while, and I wore two pairs of leggings today, all day. I don’t feel brave. I don’t feel much, just lost and lonely; perhaps that’s the air that’s settled into my joints, the light beams that peak through dusty windows, the dry, rough boxes and the dust that arises as I move books that haven’t been disturbed in the year I’ve inhabited my apartment. This is falling while standing, and a spinning of the horizon that has nothing to do with suddenly losing contact with the ground.

Except this time, as I feel my foot move up and out into nothing, I shift my weight and float backwards into soft snow. Here I can make a snow angel, which I haven’t done in years. I can feel my fingers tingle in the cold, the sun bright on my face, and the light fluttering my heart, warm and certain.