Cryoconite hole

Once, I learnt the literary world comes in innumerable shapes: a square, a circle, a Plath-shaped. That winter, Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize in Literature. I didn't understand my admiration for Guns N Roses. I was told there is no such word as “unorthodoxy.” Running further away from sonnet-like behavior, I plunged deep into psychedelic rock, then the ocean turned bluer, the waves foamed more as a mug of overbrimming beer, less as the mouth of a poisoned body. I stopped learning songs that espoused moral jargon and I began opening the window to let the mist-inebriated wind overdose the open pages of my journal, where claw-fingered and shark-teeth despair melted into prose worth reading again. Some days, I feel those cold days were suspended in time, giving me the frozen hours to pull myself out of the cryoconite hole.