Rescue me.

No one was there when I climbed out of my sludge. When I found myself lying helplessly in the midst of it, dead, not breathing.

I touched my skin and it was cold. There was no spark here. I knew had to fight to bring me back to life. I had to fight for me.

I reminisced how I was so very alone when I collected the colors of my war paint from each failure and heartbreak and pain. So many dead ends. So many missed targets. I had to find my spark, I had to find my heartbeat so I could return to the death and bring me back.

All I could see was me lying there, helplessly, in that abyss of darkness.

Through powerlessness, I learned perseverance. I gathered my own arrows, and chose to stop dying over and over when I missed my target -until my brain learned the right way to think. I taught my mouth the correct language to speak.

Words of death only bring death.

Words of life only bring life.

And slowly but surely, that life, that sun, creeps in through the cracks of the trees when the morning is finally dawning. You feel the warm of the spotty light on your skin. It resonates through your pores into your inner being. The being that is so dark. That’s only used to the night. Over time when the sun is rising higher and higher, that being is smaller and smaller, and you have the strength to rise. The sludge disappears into a beautiful bed of daisies. You sit up. The rays shine on your cheeks, and you greet yourself with a gentle smile and reach out. That touch, that connection is nothing you’ve felt before. You know now, you are truly alive. You did it. You won. You don’t have to fight anymore. You wash your paint -but the stains remain. The scars of tremendous wars fought in the past.

...and you realize with tears streaming down your face..

You’re finally free. You found your spark, your heartbeat.

Who was the rescuer?

Who brought me out? Who saved me? Who fought for me with all their might?

The rescuer?

This rescuer...

...was me.