Float On

I keep thinking of this quote from a novel I read last year, Ordinary People. It constantly applies itself to my thoughts. "People are like icebergs; one-seventh visible and operative, and the rest just so much protoplasmic energy, seething under there, looking for a target to funnel towards."
I'm an insolent stock of ice, pushing my way through the static, freezing water. I'm searching for a target to funnel towards. Humanity always is. We huddle up and plow towards something that will keep us grounded, make us feel safe, even when we know we are not. To simply search for a target, an endgame, without one specifically designated in mind can be dangerous and fleeting. It creates fickle feelings. Our security is not in what we hold on to, but what we hope for on our own.
When we do accept a palm to trace, a finger to clasp, we can forget how cold we are, and we melt away.
And humanity is cluttered and disorganized, a pile of haphazardly thrown together thoughts and emotions that somehow, in alternate ways and paths, link us all together. But there are the times when we are icebergs. The times when we feel like we are alone. The times when we are these solitary chunks of floating ice, brimming with unspeakable passions, meandering our way through the crashing waves, trying to focus on something, anything, to get us through. Scraping the ice off, however, letting it melt and evaporate until there's only you, scraped and scathed and slightly timid, and revealing yourself in  your entirety, well, that's something that the protoplasmic energy may never fully encompass. So we keep on drifting, in search of something to relieve us from the pain of the inoperative parts of us we cannot stand to let anyone see.

I love this picture.