Sitting on the bottom of this ocean floor,
the silence is deafening.
It burns my ears and rips out my heart… listen, it’s so quiet.
The sand on the bottom is sturdy, it barely moves under the weight of it all.
I can hear the movement of the water around me,
my arms float from my sides,
my hair sways slowly,
I barely notice I can’t breathe here.
Just a few more seconds, here alone, on the bottom.
I don’t want to bother anyone.
I just want to sit here, trying to learn to hear the silence, trying not to be scared of it, covering my ears when it becomes too loud.
I finally pay attention to my lungs as they scream for air, beg me to swim for the top and live.
But here, on the bottom, it can be so peaceful.
I give in to my body and push-off for the light above me.
Stopping to look back at the darkness,
pausing to see the lack of movement all around,
frightened by the silence that batters me every time…
It looks scary from here — the bottom.
Scary and silent and still.
My lungs once again guide me forward, reminding me to move, to stop looking back, to love the now and what can be’s.
When I breathe, it feels right.
Sometimes, I sit on the bottom.
Sometimes, I drown in the silence.
Sometimes, I swim for the surface.
Sometimes, I bring me back to life.