What The Water Taught Me

It comes unexpectedly, but it has always been there. It whispers behind your ear in tiny drips of leaky faucets until the world and your mind is silent for you to finally hear it. And then when you do, your eyes see it for the first time. The quiet whispers become a reality, a movie montage set in your own life, unfolding and revealing. And then your brain takes it in, seeps it through, sinks it underneath until you finally comprehend what has been there all along.

Sometimes it comes to you gradually like waters of a river flowing to the ocean: slow and a little rocky. Sometimes it comes like a waterfall: wild, loud and overwhelming.

You try to pretend that it’s not there. You try to delay the inevitable with any possible distraction. Booze. Books. Drugs.  Work. Sex. Sleep. You think you are not ready, lying to yourself with everything laid in front of you. All you have to do is accept it but you don’t want to.

But then it all becomes to much. The water becomes to high that it goes past your knees, your chest, your head. You hold your breath to try to survive through it.

Except it’s as stubborn as you.

It gets deeper. It makes your chest constrict. It makes your body feel heavy.

And when that doesn’t work it gives you waves. Dragging, pulling, and and flipping you inside and out.

The moment you let go of that air in your lungs you release the remaining parts of your denial in a gasp that is momentarily stopped as it swallows you, goes through you and into you. A part of you.

That’s what it’s like.

Falling in and out of love.

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