We are not amoebae. We are not shapeless. We are definite and defiant, even when we feel frail and fragile.
The left side of my body began to feel numb shortly after Christmas. Or was it after New Year's? Not sure. But I'm sure that it started with my toes and traveled up my calf and eventually into my fingers. It was as if the left side of my body ate a hearty holiday feast and was now napping off the overindulgence. My right side was awake. My right side was alert, taking on the weight left by the left. Where is my heart located? Somewhere in the middle, maybe? I hope. I hope that important muscle hasn't fallen into a frozen mess. Messes seem to be a fad these days, but fads crack. Fads crack and expose the bored current of water beneath. It's bored, but steady. It's at least reliable.
Amoeba move by using pseudopodia or "false feet". Pseudopodia are formed by the amoeba by throwing out the ectoplasm, followed by endoplasm flowing inward.
My frozen limbs forget how to function, so they retreat into fictional worlds found beneath covers, covers made of both cloth and board. I can move freely inside the flow of words where truth also withdraws. We paint each other out here. We paint and make the ice melt with each stroke of the brush. If there's such a thing as light, it is found within the shade.
Recently it was proposed that the majority of amoeboid lineages are, contrary to popular belief, at least anciently sexual, and that most current asexual groups have probably arisen recently and independently.
The way my feet fail me. The way my finger freezes in a curious curl. The way my heart is bitten by an unsuspecting frost. The way the thawing begins to take place in a foreign land. The way the skin is shaken awake by an unspoken language. The language was never dead, it was just never heard.
Speak. Speak and let the warmth of your lips pronounce every syllable.