Drowning

Today is just another one of those days. Another one of those days when nothing is really going wrong, but it sure as hell isn't going right either. It's like I'm floating in this mess of emotions, sensations, and obscure words that can't get through. And yet again, I can't help but wonder if any of it matters. Right now, I hope to god it doesn't. Because if this matters, if this. here. now. changes anything...I've messed up my life too much as is, I don't need this senseless abandon (and yes, I do mean senseless and not reckless) to carry me further down some path headed hell knows where.

I'm out of things to say. There are no words to describe how I feel, no phrases to express what's going through my mind. I've said it all before. There's nothing left for me to say, to do, to think, to feel. It's an endless cycle, and I don't know what any of the stages are. I just know that it won't stop. Not understanding something makes it easy. It forgives the forgotten and negates the forsaken promises to repent. It suffuses blind faith, yet abridges the foundation thereof until it is nothing.

In this way, through the tempestuous yearnings for something real, something not futile, something worthwhile, I find myself drowning. I am going down within myself, falling through the chasms of agony, washing with pity and remorse the sores of the earth with my own blood, metaphorically speaking, of course. Where once there was a fire, there is left nothing but charred soul, scarred flesh, and battered existence.

But that's the price to be paid for passion in the end. One day it burns too brightly and then the sordid memories must be erased. They never really go away, just lie in wait beneath a layer of deception, waiting to reemerge and ravage the blemished soul once more. That's where I wake up, where I open my eyes, and where I find myself going down through the water, yet free from the impassioned grasp of fear or agony or the desire to fight.

Every word is like a dagger pointed straight at my soul. Good or bad, elated or distraught, they all go the same way. Regardless of the intention, with each syllable that registers in my brain, I breathe in a little bit more water, I descend further by just a few steps. In short, I die a bit. I unwrap my chilled fingers from salvation second by second, letting myself slip away. Finally, I find my lungs filled no longer with air, I find myself unable to breathe, to speak, to live.

Then the daggers don't hurt anymore. The pain of steel going through flesh and organ and soul becomes a blessed relief.