A Hundred Different Ways to Say Cold

So, Arctic.

This is what I do. I feel something. Something I can't bitch about, effectively anyway, something I can't ask for help with, something that I'm struggling with.

So I attribute it to something I CAN describe. And then I write it down.

So typically this would be a poem. And it might yet be.
This is me, trying to figure it out. If I can quantify it, I can deal with it.
If I can wrestle it to the ground and name it, then I can overcome it.

I feel like I'm in a snow wasteland.

I'm bundled in snow clothes. I'm slowed down, I move stiffly, and with none of the grace of myself. Everything hurts. The sun on the white expanse burns my eyes. They sting and tear, anyway, because everything is frigid.

A movement is clumsy and doesn't go the way I thought when I moved.
Remember when you were out in the snow, all bundled up, and you were running after someone else, and they moved faster and you just slogged behind?

And you were breathless with the exertion, all muscles screaming and yet chilled, stinging with the exposure?

Trying to catch up.
Everything I say sounds ridiculous. I'm several yards behind and I can't remember where my home is. I can't see my home anymore. I don't know if I'll ever find it again.

There are a hundred ways to say Help. There are a thousand to say I'm sorry.

I can't find the words, I don't know who to say it to and I can't catch up.
Everyone is so far away that I'm not even on the horizon.

And I know this, but the faster I move the more I stand still.
Like when you were a kid, the sledding down the snowy hill was exhilarating, but getting back up was agony, and you wondered why you were outside at all?

And I'm freezing, here.
I don't know what to do.

For the first time in a long time, I don't know what to do.

I am no ski bunny.
I'm a lumbering, growling Yeti and I just want my warm hole with no one around to remind me that I'm a figment of their imagination.