Drip

It seeps into you in that way it always does, February: cruelly, heavily, relentlessly. Your brief glimpses above the surface refill your lungs but in a panic, there's never enough air before you are mercilessly flung back into the depths, rolling wave after rolling wave holding you to the ocean floor, scraping your skin against the corals who do not care if you bleed. I don't recognize my body under these bruises, under 11 months of inertia, I don't recognize my spirit under these weights of ineffectivity, and yet isn't that always the way with February? Carrying an unloveable burden that doesn't even feel like your kin. 

I turn up the therapy lamp to max. 

In a silence, little answers whisper themselves to me, they all weave themselves around the word, they tell you there must be salvation there because if not then there may be none to be had. And you are not ready for no salvation to be had. 

I decided long ago I'd live this life entire, I decided to keep going even in the face of all manner of good arguments not to. I promised to ignore the good arguments, I promised to put pen to paper instead, if Bukowski can live a whole life despite himself then dammit so can you. 

Count your pennies. Put one foot in front of the other. This, too, shall pass. 

Every wave reaches the shore
eventually.