I look through the massive window before me; before MANY in fact. I'm one of the first people to see the frozen pond. Beneath the ice lie great figures of history who will one day be revived. My trip to this cryogenic laboratory is obligatory: I must familiarize myself with the history of my people. The only problem, as I see it, is that these particular figures held incredibly similar beliefs to the present leaders of all the states and territories of Australia now; in 2040. If eyes can be cold, and expressions freeze, then surely it's not such an extravagant leap to suggest that ideologies could also become crystallized in such a manner, much like excess dirty money, by authoritarian practices and unwavering allegiance to whomever may be reigning, hoping to be pleasing them always, like they're cats falling from the sky, as cute as angels.
I'm here on my own of course, for traveling anywhere in pairs is forbidden. Even making simple physical contact with anyone is forbidden, so it's really no wonder that I am where I am, starting to feel the chill in the air regulated from afar, like such chill is hardly up in the air but pinning me to the ground with an anthropomorphic icy demeanor. They say even viruses steer clear of people whom are cold and heartless.
I place my palms against the glass, in an attempt to demonstrate to anyone watching, that my heart still beats; my fingers still work; my hands are still slightly red like cheeks used to turn, upon their hosts nearing lovers: nowadays however, redness is synonymous with pain and such cheeks are like bulls turning upon their hosts nearing lovers, like the cats that fell from the sky before have now mutated into vicious creatures that could rip people to shreds. But there's no way to even shed a tear now when frozen in every way.
I can see the nondescript door, now, that I will need to open to enter the massive igloo of sorts, but part of me - perhaps frozen in fear - wonders what happens if I inadvertently wander around wrongly while around ice that could be thin like gray hair. I'm stressing out. Is there a possibility that something akin to potholes may have developed on ground that has not been walked upon for many years? This seems counter-intuitive, but no occupied counter - or plans for any counter should anyone wish to complain about anything ever - really exists here, so it may as well be intuitive.
It's time to continue circling this structure that resembles a broken crystal ball - like there is no future -, so I remove my palms from what was surely some kind of scanner, and continue tracing a path around the facility in order to reach the door. I don't really want to enter, but I must. Freedoms that the powerful people promise me, are contingent upon my careful, obedient, and observant entrance into this cool church, like going to frozen masses is like going to Mass or Mars: my stream of consciousness has frozen solid now. I can't think myself out of this circuit, like sparks and data can't escape the inner recesses of my mind, or like leaders form a figurative circuit around me, taking me where I'm going under duress, ever venturing further into an underground Everest.
I reach the door and touch the handle. There's nothing to play with here, just some standard solid material leaving nothing to the imagination. If I simply get a grip on this, like myself, then I'm one step closer to seemingly turning into some deep state. I close my palm around the object, trying to figure out my objective. What is it I can do here to benefit the people watching me? There are cameras following me, of course, since I'm a star. Fighting bulls has gotten me this far in life; to an icy compound full of capitalist sympathizers now looking like the material goods that they always desired.
So I turn the handle, as I must; as I'm inclined to, as I watch it being moved. I push the door open, hearing the creaks like there's some room for improvement, then I enter this absurd den-like - rather than Zen- - enclosure. I let the door close behind me.
Right before me is a fence like one surrounding the Grand Canyon, seemingly stretching for miles like people are getting up, but they're not. They're frozen in the thick of ice. I walk up to the fence and look down at the smooth sheet below me; a human-water lake that spans square miles like wild horses.
There are so many people down there, but none of whom I can talk to. They won't hear a word I'll say. Should I write words on pieces of paper I then drop over the edge, that freeze into the very ice they inhabit, they will still not see a single letter, given it's presence beyond not just eyelids and ice, but consciousness. They will remain frozen. All I can do is watch them. No one is with me. I have no true friends; only words that I can only imagine.
None of them say a word as I now trace a path beside the fence, gazing at frozen face after frozen face. I can't get close to them, but I wonder whether there may be a way to truly shock people right now; to make my mark like marking my territory; to single-handedly - perhaps without hands - endanger lives of some very wealthy, compliant subjects, simply by taking a leak. I wouldn't, of course, since too much is at stake, like my freedoms, but what if I just really needed to go right now? I can imagine a powerful prospective princess doing just this just once, before her ultimate reign.
I catch myself smiling, and then wipe it from my face. This is not the solemn expression powerful people want me to wear here.
I study the frozen people one at a time, and then chance upon one I recognize; a judge of sorts. Then I see another, but all I hear is silence; crystallized and stagnant silence.