I’m tired of dying. I’ve spent many years, searching for relief, yet death eludes me. Swimming hopelessly in the swift currents of my life and tears, a distant part of my mind wonders if I’m swimming against the current, going with the seductive flow, or simply treading in place to keep from going under. I yearn for the shore, eager to feel the solid earth beneath my feet, but I can’t reach it from here and I grow weary.
The grave I’ve prepared in anticipation of my death is deep; its sides are slick and its sharp corners unyielding; my hands can find no purchase to facilitate escape. I cry for help, but none can hear. Perhaps if my cries had voice, someone would lower a rope into my tomb, but I silenced my voice long ago, afraid of my own sound.
I’m tired of dying. I crave life, but I don’t know how to seize it. How do you clear your lungs of the murky waters of despair, and teach them to seek oxygen for sustenance? How do you climb out of your deep, dark, tomb, the tomb that terrifies you, yet has become home? How do you reach the shore and take your life from the land?
These questions invade my slumber and attack moments of perceived peace. As I surrender to the current and slide down the smooth wall of my tomb, the questions bite at my tender flesh, and I cry out; they will not be ignored. Life reaches for me, but I am untrusting and afraid of this stranger, unfamiliar after so many years wasted, racing toward my demise.