You don’t realize you’ve been
holding your breath
until the surface cracks open above you,
and suddenly, light.
Not warmth, not yet.
But light.
The instinct to stay under is strong.
To float in the numb.
To let the silence press in,
where nothing is demanded,
and nothing has to be said.
But then,
somewhere in the ache between
panic and surrender,
you move.
Fingers twitch.
Lungs burn.
Some part of you still wants the sky.
So you kick.
Not hard.
Not gracefully.
Just enough to rise.
Just enough to break the surface
with a gasp that sounds like a sob.
And it hurts.
The air cuts.
The world is loud,
too bright,
too sharp.
But it’s air.
It’s not peace.
It’s not safety.
But it’s breath.
And for now—
for just this moment—
that is enough.
There’s a familiarity to your work, reminders of a life I left behind. I’m enthralled with your work and you just got here.
I am so appreciative of your comment. It truly means a lot to me.
It’s my pleasure, truly
This was an intriguing and interesting read. Perhaps my interpretation is unusual and off base. To me, it is as if a child is born into this world. Although, I don’t think that was your intention. I’m not sure. 🤔
I really like your description. You could possibly be right. I never thought of it, but it does fit. Thank you so much for the comment.
Powerfully penned, Patricia. Terrific storytelling, and wordplay. Appreciate you.
Damian
You’re so kind, Damien. Thank you.
for me trying to stay sober feels like holding my breath I know it can’t last forever with me eventually I will have to breathe great write 💕
Thank you, Brenda. I wish only the best for your life.