Jealous Blackheart
A Well Read Demon
- Aug 25, 2023
- 172
Depression. A metaphor that is often used to describe the difficulty of the struggle. Being out at sea, the violent waves, trying to keep your head above water. No one there, or coming to save you. I can't swim. I can swim. Not really. That's not just a metaphor. I know how to, the techniques, but my body is too dense and I do not float. Drop me in water and my body will try to find the bottom. Staying above water takes vigilant effort. Constant exertion. I spent many years trying to keep my head above water but I was failing. I was tired. It was exhausting. I couldn't carry on like that anymore. No one was coming to save me. At best. More than one passerby expressed that I ought to drown, some tried to accelerate the process, but most just watched, and all simply carried on.
Someday, somewhere in all my struggling, I lost the will to keep trying. It was no longer in me to believe there was ever going to come a time when I would find land. Never a time I wasn't struggling for a gasp of air. For the bare minimum. So, I let go. I sank. I let the waves and the water take me. There was release there. From the violence. I thought about that. In my last moments before I drowned. I felt the relief of not fighting anymore as gravity took me to my watery grave. And the moment was long. And so was the next. And the next. As I continued to sink. And I sank. And sank. And sank… My relief drew closer to frustration as destruction took its sweet time to claim me. It took a moment more for me to realize it. It wasn't going to come. I was fine. Still. And still sinking. So I took a deep breath then, and learned that I could still breathe underwater. This changed everything. This was where I belonged. In the dark and deep. Not up there in the Sun. With the land walkers, the surface dwellers. And yet I spent all these years fighting for something that was never mine.
Although I found peace and a sense of aligning with my true nature underwater, it is worth remembering that there are many dangerous things in the dark. It is easy to get lost down here, away from the light. Easy to get hurt. The thing about the drowning is that for many of us, it happens alone. And alone we remain. This becomes loneliness for some. Whether for this reason or the pull of allure on a sleeve, a temptation sets in.
Imagine this. A siren. A dweller of the deep. She swims to the surface to observe the surface dwellers. She likes watching them from afar. Like Adam Frankenstein she develops this asymmetrical relationship with the objects of her observation and considers them her friends. She longs to be among them, however, she knows she does not belong on land. The deep is her home. One day she decides to take her friend home. To show them where she dwells. And whether by surprise, by force, or by song, she drags this stranger underwater, to their death. Those that dwell on the surface need light and air. It is vital for them. So like a cactus craving a hug, or a woodpecker with a poison beak, ruin awaits. All the siren wants is a friend, but she never learns. And so one after another, soldiers and sailors are led to their watery graves, seduced by the dark, by mystery, by her song. Is this not why Hades stole Persephone? Not everyone belongs here. Not everyone can survive the water. Even now when I see someone struggling, kicking, gasping for air, I am torn. Do I tell them to give up and drown like I did? Will it save them as it did me? Or will it kill them? What if someone comes to save them? What if they make it back to land… where they belong? We cannot undo the drowning. I do belong down here. I still do. And it is beautiful in its way. But it is dangerous. My companions, should I have any, must belong here already. Not these curious divers. Not these lustful sailors. Not these passersby that play in the shallow. Not these tourists that always play for fun, but never for keeps. Nor can I be cruel or selfish enough to forge my own by inviting them in. By drowning them in the water. Our fair weather friends must stay above water. Near the shore. On their mountains.
An excerpt from one of my journals.
Someday, somewhere in all my struggling, I lost the will to keep trying. It was no longer in me to believe there was ever going to come a time when I would find land. Never a time I wasn't struggling for a gasp of air. For the bare minimum. So, I let go. I sank. I let the waves and the water take me. There was release there. From the violence. I thought about that. In my last moments before I drowned. I felt the relief of not fighting anymore as gravity took me to my watery grave. And the moment was long. And so was the next. And the next. As I continued to sink. And I sank. And sank. And sank… My relief drew closer to frustration as destruction took its sweet time to claim me. It took a moment more for me to realize it. It wasn't going to come. I was fine. Still. And still sinking. So I took a deep breath then, and learned that I could still breathe underwater. This changed everything. This was where I belonged. In the dark and deep. Not up there in the Sun. With the land walkers, the surface dwellers. And yet I spent all these years fighting for something that was never mine.
Although I found peace and a sense of aligning with my true nature underwater, it is worth remembering that there are many dangerous things in the dark. It is easy to get lost down here, away from the light. Easy to get hurt. The thing about the drowning is that for many of us, it happens alone. And alone we remain. This becomes loneliness for some. Whether for this reason or the pull of allure on a sleeve, a temptation sets in.
Imagine this. A siren. A dweller of the deep. She swims to the surface to observe the surface dwellers. She likes watching them from afar. Like Adam Frankenstein she develops this asymmetrical relationship with the objects of her observation and considers them her friends. She longs to be among them, however, she knows she does not belong on land. The deep is her home. One day she decides to take her friend home. To show them where she dwells. And whether by surprise, by force, or by song, she drags this stranger underwater, to their death. Those that dwell on the surface need light and air. It is vital for them. So like a cactus craving a hug, or a woodpecker with a poison beak, ruin awaits. All the siren wants is a friend, but she never learns. And so one after another, soldiers and sailors are led to their watery graves, seduced by the dark, by mystery, by her song. Is this not why Hades stole Persephone? Not everyone belongs here. Not everyone can survive the water. Even now when I see someone struggling, kicking, gasping for air, I am torn. Do I tell them to give up and drown like I did? Will it save them as it did me? Or will it kill them? What if someone comes to save them? What if they make it back to land… where they belong? We cannot undo the drowning. I do belong down here. I still do. And it is beautiful in its way. But it is dangerous. My companions, should I have any, must belong here already. Not these curious divers. Not these lustful sailors. Not these passersby that play in the shallow. Not these tourists that always play for fun, but never for keeps. Nor can I be cruel or selfish enough to forge my own by inviting them in. By drowning them in the water. Our fair weather friends must stay above water. Near the shore. On their mountains.
An excerpt from one of my journals.
