You keep swimming…

There’s always something that keeps us above it, with our noses just in line with the approaching and then soon distancing sheets of foam which flow always from the depths to the shallows; so’s the ocean and our lives equally.

We shut them, our eyes, when those waves are bound to rise taller than us by a little, or a little more. Going dark is a choice, for the tiniest moment you opt if you’d rather trust the wave to be limpid or risk being soiled to blindness. And blindness is a nightmare to pretty much anyone out there, for we know it leads only to added distress; those who’ve been swirled breathless at shorebreak will know how it feels like.

I used to rejoice in going to the beach. It’d depress me and give me reason to keep crossing so ceaselessly throughout my erroneous mind alleys. I’d be out to see the water regardless of the ongoing season, and the water, thankful for my appreciation, would be there to always let me see her face. I saw her at places, mainly those which were inhabited to me, where others would not disturb or know who I was.

The shorelines, the woods, the drenched February roads one’s sometimes wary of driving upon; those were places of my choosing and, humorously, of my dying too. I was funny even then!

Then, the post-turmoil period. I’ve been in it for quite some time, so long that I can no more recall the blended scent of smokes, daylight tipsiness and soaring crests; the ocean is only vaguely familiar to me now. And so is much else, and the more had there been, the more would’ve one hurt for for reasons unknown to logic.

That’s why one should not just believe himself to be as good as drowned, unless we’re so extensively lacking a spirit that, to sink in rest becomes the sole idea of cure… and even so, life’s too tangible to simply end it. That’s why you see far more who’ve abandoned it but still dared not to leave it. And, for the larger masses like ourselves and those who both read us and write for us, there’s afterlife, undeniably, we’ve learnt of it from experience. There’s no skipping the experience… always.

And since in between the next anchoring site and the previous melodramatic dunes one has dived from lives no ground to run aground and stand on, here’s what you might learn by water’s sighting and its touch:

Is that midterms can either be long or brief and the change that’s theirs to vehiculate to you also large or petty, but it’s always one’s try at mobilizing himself that’ll mark the happening of a middle. Middle means movement and to stay dry is to die, thus, you get in and keep swimming! Only then can you expect things to change, once within open water; too far to wander back in reticence but not as close to the other side as to find grantedness in its yet smoggy pier.

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