Sometimes I feel like I've taken a deep breath underwater. I've let the water into my lungs and it's thick and warm. I don't cough, but everything slows down. It flows through my head, and I'm left with nothing but silt, built up and swirling around.
I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to live under water. I don't know how to think through silt. I don't know how to swim through mud. From down here, I forget what the sun looks like. I know I saw it yesterday. And somewhere deep, I know I'll probably see it tomorrow. But I can't quite believe it, even though I know it's true.
I wonder what I've done wrong to deserve this. I wonder which toe I let over the line by mistake. It seems like such an abused train of thought, knowing that I've done something wrong, and knowing that I haven't, all at the same time. Knowing I've done something to deserve this punishment, and knowing I've done nothing at all.
Did I stand up too many times? Did I sit with my neck craned at a funny angle for too long? Did I spend too long in the laundry room with the buzzing light? It's little nothings, always. It's little nothings that I'm punished for, and I don't know why.
I can't remember what I did. I don't know why I feel a thousand miles away and sinking, but I feel sick and I can't make it stop.
I'm stuck in the mud and I'm afraid I've forgotten the way out.
Ten years of mud weighs on the soul.
Ten years, October.
Fourteen and ten, and here I am. Twenty four.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
I'm heading west for the summer. Today can't stop me. The muddled muddy mind may put off booking tickets, but it can't stop me.
It can't stop me, but that doesn't mean it can't scare me. A little bit. Because it does.
But I'm doing it anyway.
I'll see the pacific ocean.
Maybe it will wash away the mud.