Tread

You dig yourself out of the darkness, little crumbs of oxygen, such a sad moment's breath but you take it. Look over the reams of paper in your wake, have the time to think things are worse than I suspected  before they are swept under the rug. You see, the words do not lie, even when they twist and dance in such pleasant curlicues, even when they seem to give meaning to the black soot that covers your every cell. Look over previous edits, see desperate scribbles in the margins, a mad man's clinging to sanity, crossed out on the next page with steady ink, saying the word will be worth it. We've seen this film before, know it doesn't end well. This narrative doesn't ride off into the sunset. This narrative is inner monologue into oblivion. 

I woke up last night in the middle of a thunderstorm, my hand on the windowsill and the lightning like it was in the room with me. Torrents of rain met the earth, explosions shaking the brick building around me, I could not go back to sleep. I could not be mad. 

These storms are inevitable, are as much a life as the shallow breath in your lung, are yours to bear. You carry them unconditionally. 

This does not mean you carry them without fear
they will bury you
at last.