Leap Year

She says to take deep breaths, she says to let your mind drift away and be empty, she says to relax. Her soft, swaying voice follows such a light ripple in the waters; how you are supposed to float on the lightness of Nothingness and resurface brand new. She doesn't know that when the waters are still, the monsters below have free rein, that you must rage the current on your own to keep them at bay. I fail miserably with all she asks of me, and I arise from the waves out of breath and entirely abused.

What point is there in these possessions, this stability? What point is there in regular paychecks and recurring tv shows, in sleeping well at night? Sometimes I think I chase them only because someone said so. Most days I fear I accept them because I believe it's all I'm good for.

It's no coincidence my greatest fear is drowning,
while my greatest joy is barreling through the surf.