Shipwreck
I am drowning in the thick molasses of silence. This emptiness is not like sailing on regular waters. No. Lately the only salt water I’ve come into contact with are the miniature rivers that run down my cheeks when I think too much. No easy sailing here. Some days the stillness is deceptive, like I’m floating on a calm, glassy sea. Any small snag, however, and the sticky brown syrup of loneliness and panic starts to bubble up, threatening to swamp my small dingy at any moment. I cannot let myself forget that it is not water on which I sail. Water can be swallowed, coughed up, dried out. This molasses is a killer; it’ll make you choke or drown before it’ll allow itself to be pushed out of your lungs.
