In the forest of Icebergs

Why don’t we talk about homelessness? Here, in this city, I drive by barrages of desolate personal landscapes, people sleeping on the side of the road.

I drive by
I drive by
I drive by
I drive by
I drive by

I never stop.

What do I have to say? What do I have to give? I’m just another broke grad student, a floating iceberg trying to collaborate with other floating icebergs to create scholarship.

Has anyone seen icebergs collaborate?

Old men walk across the street. Their clothes hang off them like time, pulling them to the ground. Will my clothes hang like time as I age?

My face swells and my eyes grow heavy. I tell myself to keep moving forward. I wish there was a way to do this dance without focusing so much on myself. A way to dance through grad school with a graciousness towards others. But academia is a land of icebergs and I float and you float. Has anyone seen icebergs collaborate?

I want to believe that icebergs dream for community, that it is the very structure that keeps them apart. A small, cold island above spreads out far beyond its visible width below.  Even if two icebergs try to meet, the less visible features of their structure keep them at a length. Two feet meet for a brief moment under a table before time and distance remove them from that moment forever.

Too much talk of calmness above and chaos below, of academics as ducks and icebergs.

I try not to succumb.

I wish to be tree. Roots deeply planted in the ground. A solid foundation, a stabilizer, a nurturer. Perhaps I’d live in a forest, communing with the other trees that surround me. Birds living in my hair. Wind brushing against my skin.

I’d rather be a tree than an iceberg.

I’ve never been good at staving off the cold.

I dream that as a forest of trees, we can provide food and shelter to those in need. That beneath the canopy there is a place where people thrive, warm, housed, and fed. A place for people to flourish.

Perhaps it’s just a dream.

I drive by

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