The Struggling Human
That wave, like the face of tragedy or extreme practical need, knocks all the sought imagery into a stupid coughing oblivion, swirling in an undercurrent tide beyond the fight of human strength,
one must simply surrender and wait.
Waiting for the lull between crests, seeking the surface, and then, the air.
The beautiful breath above, sunlight, dreams flood back into the brain, hope, and even maybe, joy.
...and then the second wave crashes.
The longest times tug at the senses, pulled underneath into the darkest unknowns, the invigoratingly frustrating currents of circumstances and needs, the powerlessness and exhaustion.
The temptation to smirk at idealism, or mock youthfulness, the whys that led to the nows. The facades of such importance now compose only hurdles because survival is all that's left.
In the waiting, tempted to forget and disregard, daylight and dreams, the urge to fight drowned in sickening helplessness and screams only muffled by suppressing salty blackness. It feels only a mockery of all the composition one contains, all attributes just dumb mere existence, that's all.
That's all?
Dumb mere existence, motions taken by the tides. Mockery at idealism and the prose of the past.
The stripping away and finding all that's left. Underneath, deeply underneath.
Discovering the helplessness of humanity, the stuff the surface life hides in its covers and tricks and turns, awing the crowd. What's left when the crowd is gone, far above, and one tossing, far below.
The struggling human.
The truest state, the vulnerability inability to admit.
But then, in the helplessness, a realizing surrender.
To stop motion and notice the glimmering surfaces. A new angle from the pit of the deepest depths.
A sobering humility sweeps in at the stillness of the sun all the more in arms of the dark undercurrents of the sea.
Motion doesn't cease and no ease for the body, but the mind stilled once more by hope, hope, even in breathlessness and salty exhausted oblivion.
The waves knocking out the facades and imagery to open up a truer identification and realization.
Refinement.
The purpose in the blackness. Though the exhaustion promises no less of itself.
As the current pulls deeper still, there in the places where hardly light has touched,
...an anchor jaggedly and comfortably held within the ugly blackness.
A beacon. One to never be disrupted yet never forgotten,
the thread between the blackness and the light,
the roadmap Home.
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