How deep do words sink?
The circumstances that caused this moment of sin have passed. The feelings and emotions are present and have been stewing long before the seal was cracked. But, the words. The words.
These mighty yet elusive constructions of letters are somewhere inside.
Whether they’re a couple fingers or a fist below is entirely too soon to determine. The only way to get to this end is to begin, and to begin again is the easiest part.
You hate finding yourself here. You also well know it’s the one and only way to emerge what you can’t seem to find on the shore. You’ve begrudgingly come to terms with exactly who you might be: someone who can only find true meaning after diving so deeply— submerging yourself so martyristically—to bring rescue the words you think the entire world needs to read.
Thirty-six weeks now on this coast without descent. When things were going well, the words you needed weren’t leagues below. No, they floated weightlessly far above the depths you find yourself desperately drowning in now.
When you need words most, they turn up furthest from the surface. You’re used to this dysfunctional relationship with prose and the self-deprecating, cold darkness you must reach before they reveal themselves to you once again. But, by then, it’s too late.
What you are left with then is only a lesson, a scar. Something you hope will remind you of this heaviness the next time what you’re looking for is right in front of you. Perhaps one day you’ll learn how to avoid anchoring yourself into such depths to find salvation.
Until then, I’ll cascade into this open bottle until I am exposed. I’m low on ice and smokes, but not on an overwhelming need to reach the bottom.