currents

I had a dream, once. Ten years ago or ten years from now, my mind won't say. But it went like this:

I cry as I slide down the mountain, down the riverbank, reaching up for someone to save me. The rocks below me give way as I try to find my footing; dirt and blood caking my hands and fingernails as I scratch at the earth. I cry for them to save me. I cry for anyone to save me.

I watch as they watch me break my fingers and toes trying to reach them, scrambling hopelessly for their hand, their foot, their anything. I would have grabbed at anything they had offered me.

But they turn away, and I continue to fall.

And the river catches me, welcomes me with open arms, and cradles me in its current. Like a mother waiting for their child to call, like a child waiting for their mother to call. And the river that catches me isn't cold, but I fight anyway.

I fight because I am bitter; because I am mad at them for letting me fall, and sad that I couldn't catch myself in the way I wanted. I fight because it's all I know how to do and because it's easier to pretend that I can control what's happening to me and because I'm scared. I'm scared that if I stop fighting, all the fight I had while falling was worthless. I'm scared because I don't know where this river is taking me. I'm scared because I'm alone. I grabbed onto all that I could, but all it did was trap me under.

And like all things eventually do, I get tired. I get tired of trying fruitlessly for traction on things that were only hurting me. I get tired of crying out for people who couldn't save me. I get tired of fighting against a river that only knows how to go forward, and so I think, for just a second, "what if I let it in?"

And just like that water is rushing into my lungs.

And just like that I say to the river, "I accept you and your current,

I am yours, and I will do what you need from me,

I will let you take me where I am supposed to go."

And just like that, the water is still. And just like that, for the first time in forever, it doesn't hurt to breathe.

And then I wake up.

And I know there's a metaphor here somewhere, but my lungs feel too tight to think about it.