On Too Much Water

Scared is what I am, more than anything, I think. There is nothing anchoring me to one place, nothing to lend strength and promise that I will reach solid ground. Adrift, unsure of where to face, and without energy to paddle, I am utterly, completely, absolutely lost.

How many out there are fighting a similar battle as I am? How many are as afraid? How many turn to fragile words of gossamer, flung blindly into the proverbial void, hoping it would latch on to something -- anything worth clinging to? Worth staying alive for?

It hurts me to think that this sanctuary I have made for myself has turned into a cloister of demons malign and malevolent. No more do I speak of idle day-to-day ramblings. No more do I write about love lost, gained, and lost again. Whatever it was that colored my world in the years past -- no matter how silly or shallow or profoundly sweet or cruel (sometimes both at the same time) -- everything has melted and drowned away. Watercolor canvas on too much water. Letters thrown into the flame. All that is left is a blackened room of ash and fragile things, crumbling to dust at a moth's touch.

And then there is guilt. Guilt that perhaps, all this -- all that is crippling me -- is a whole body of nothing. All that needs doing is to look up from the ground, brush away the dirt from one's clothes, face the sun, and walk again. Lesser people have overcome, why not me? Other people are facing even worse battles, why do I flinch away at the first few strikes?

Shame settles onto my face like an angel -- beautiful like benediction -- and it cripples me further. Give this life to someone more deserving, I say. I do not honor anyone by being alive. Let no stories about me linger when I pass on.

Let no one know my name.

The Lighthouse

"Know thyself," people say. The idea that we don't -- or sometimes even, can't -- really know ourselves fully sits at the back of our consciousness, a broken lighthouse trying to pierce through the gloom. We ignore it for the most part, preferring to navigate our waters by ourselves, believing the wind will sway us where it wills us to be, or maybe our hand will take up the oar and we row. There are times, however, when the light sways our direction, hitting us square on our faces -- and it will not be ignored.

Three weeks into this job, and three things I have always known about myself have been reinforced quite strongly. These I say with complete objectivity, nor do I pity myself for recognizing and owning them: (1) even if I try, even if I persevere, and no matter how much faith I shine onto it, my written voice will always be as it is now, and I can never call myself a writer; (2) this must be true for most of us, but I am deathly afraid of the world, of life itself; and (3) I will always feel guilty about being alive, I am now, and I have always been.

Three things, and it seems they answer any question that may be asked about me. Why can I not keep a job for long enough? Why can I not commit? Why do I not have anything to turn to, to feel good about myself? Why, when it counts the most, do I retreat in the dark, preferring the company of my own gloom rather than being with friends? Pick one -- (1), (2), or (3).

The lighthouse is still, and the beam of light does not sway from my face. I nod a greeting to no one in particular and I sit back on the boat, feeling nothing but the gentle cradling of the waves. There is no wind, and I have thrown the oars to the waters. I know where land is, but I much prefer being here.