You are a snowball.
Rolling downhill with unstoppable force.
With each revolution, you grow and grow and grow. Everything that touches you sticks like glue upon an increasingly frozen surface.
The larger you get, the faster you move.
Until objects at the edge of your vision begin to blur, but you keep rolling and growing and allowing the excess to glom on to your surface.
Eventually, the world, your world, realizes what's happening. They ask what they can do to help you. You hear voices screaming at you from the sidelines:
"What can I do to make this better?"
"How can I help you?"
"There's a book I once read all about this sort of thing. Do you want to borrow it?"
And as much as you want to slow down, you can't. You want to scream to them the truth:
I want to be seen.
I want to be heard.
I want you to be proud of me.
I want to be more to you than just background noise.
But as these hopes and dreams swim up from your subconscious, you realize they sound too lofty, too much to put upon that world.
Because that's what happens when you are heavy with the weight of snow, you feel insignificant inside.
So instead, you say, in a small voice, "it's okay, I'm fine. I'm sure I will slow down sooner or later."
The core of you, that integral piece of your soul that was so important when beginning this journey, is buried deep inside a casing of hard-packed ice.
You cannot find the "you" inside of you. You sometimes wonder if it dripped out the way ice cream drips from the bottom of a cone. Maybe it's gone. Perhaps you will never be able to retrieve that piece of you again.
You wonder as you spin across this wintry landscape why you care so much about what the world thinks of you. And the answer is so clear every time. Because you love the world. So you continue to roll.
But there is a thing about snowballs that you keep forgetting. They melt. So you wait and wait and wait for the warm weather to arrive.