on the edge of something,
you breathe, your head just above the water.
you stay afloat,
your thoughts frantically kicking and swimming,
allowing you to have just enough air to breathe.
you wait for someone to pull you out,
into their lifeboat,
to dry you off and tell you things are going to be okay.
but instead,
you keep kicking.
and then,
you rest.
but only till
the water rises up.
grows taller.
and you sink deeper—
rocking back and forth,
it pulls you and pushes you,
the waves rushing over you,
your instinct tells you what to do,
but you resist—
scared to sink deeper.
scared to be unwound and unraveled into this sea of fear and unknown.
what was it like? before you stepped foot in this ocean.
in all the chaos, you stop to remember.
but the memory you look for,
is hidden.
it sunk.
it sunk
the moment you stepped one foot too deep.
but you didn’t notice,
too busy seeing and watching
the vast span of water unfolding before you.
the only thing you learned to do,
was search.
to search
and search
for anything on the horizon
that reminded you of you.
who you were when you found the ocean.
who you were when you fought the ocean.
who you are within the ocean.
like land in the distance,
you touch the memory that is
surrounded by tendrils of fog
and suddenly things become clear.
you.
the only thing that matters is finding you.
because as you found the ocean, as you swam, and as you sunk,
the only thing that mattered was finding you.
not just who you were,
not just who they think,
but who you really are.
