The walls, they talk
If you care to listen
I choose to
Run my hand through the words
Picking up little letters
They mean nothing separated,
But together tell a story
What story is etched on your walls?
What letters will my fingers pick up
As they trail across your skin
Will it be in a language I understand
Or will your story remain a secret,
Too confusing for me to comprehend
It’s like this ocean that some people find themselves in. You aren’t entirely sure how you get there, but once you’re there, you are there. There’s no way out, no land off in the distance. All you can do is float. Lay back, look at the beautiful sky, and float. You know the ocean isn’t always going to be calm, so you float and you look at the beautiful sky and you wait.
At some point while you’re floating, the waves pick up a little bit. They might swell over your face every now and then, but you can still float. That small part of your brain that’s all about survival starts to panic a little, but you overpower it. You are okay, you can do this, the waves will calm. And they do.
At some point, very suddenly, the waves pick up. And just as suddenly you are wrenched beneath the surface, being held just below by some unseen force. You can see the beautiful sky but it’s clouded and murky now. The first time this happens, you panic. Sheer, utter panic. You struggled, you fought, but it exhausted you more. So you float.
And now you’ve done this before. Too many times to count. You know if you hold your breath long enough, whatever is holding you under will let you go. But you don’t know how long that’ll be, how long you’ll have to float just under that happy feeling, unable to reach it. Maybe this is the time your breath gives out first. Maybe this is the time you don’t finally float back to the surface.
But you do.
You always do.