Tell me a little bit about yourself, he said. Okay, I said. Okay. I am a persistent body of dense ice that is constantly moving under its own gravity. I am somehow important globally and I might be in danger. Am I in danger? I asked.
Staring doesn't help the problem, I noted.
We have a problem? He questioned.
I sat. This interview (or was it an interrogation?) was going nowhere, but at least I'm not going to sink. Going nowhere is better than going under, I thought to myself. I think a lot to myself. I think little of myself. I got up to leave.
So where are you going?
And then I stopped. I don't know, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I remained silent and he remained seated and outside the door the sheets of paper kept sliding through the printer, copying off the names of people I'd never meet or be or provide for. I could never provide stable ground for anyone because I am shrinking. I am disappearing. I am moving and not moving and apparently contradicting.
I am just telling you a little bit about myself. Just twenty percent. The rest is resting beneath.
Do I have to decide? Do I have to check a box to say whether I am a glacier or an iceberg? Am I whole or have I broken off? Where is the in between? When did I separate from myself?