I often feel like a radio caught between stations, or perhaps a ham radio operator living deep in the vast white waste of Antarctica.
A solitary sentinel.
I can hear what everyone else hears. Almost. But only the outer fringes. I'm buried in a howling storm. Hood and gloves on, even in my shelter. I hear the overlap of thousands of channels. Many in strange languages with skipped words. Loud and whisper thin. Fast and slow rhythmed, with ululating tones, pings and beeps. I sense the shape of them. Of the words. Of the world. I understand much of its mystery.
I press the talk button and try to call out. To communicate.
My antenna is broken. Or coated in ice that muffles the signal. All I get are garbled responses.
"We don't understand what you're saying..."