The Perfect Medium
The deep end, I tell you, is not as cold and lonesome as you’d imagine while your feet are rooted in the dark sands of the shore—staring at the untrodden waters of the inbetweens. Once you get there—and it knows you—once you’re trapped and there’s no where else to go; our body accepts it’s fate, and the cold learns to swim through your blood. This is when you adapt; the insanity that plagues you becomes your greatest companion—your most trustworthy friend—and at that precise moment, that is when you hit the perfect medium between existing and dying, between being a goddamn angel and being this nefarious raven from hell. This is the moment when your thoughts sit on the delicate trapeze of brilliance and mental despair. You are part of the horizon of this sea—the deep end, the surface tension between submergence and the air—leg muscles contracting as you adopt the motion de la mer*; head above water, gawking at the infinite abyss. Existence is still, and that is when Everything reveals itself.
Don’t drown (refuse it), and don’t get out—one will kill you, and the other will drive you into dysfunctional insanity. You’re in the deep end now, and the cold that runs through your veins, and the ghosts that have shown themselves will hold your hand and drift you to what it means to Be, to Be.