I do not think I know how to write anymore.

I do not think I know how to write anymore.

There was a time it was bobbing towards me in a sea of such vastness and mystery, like a pure sunbeam, untouched by the cold. Like the sun, it lifted me closer to the sky, sought colour within the squeeze of lemon-rain. In the night, it sunk below my feet, through my body and into my heart, and beat and beat and beat.

I do not feel it now. It floats a little, it dangles, it crashes over and dissolves into white specks that travel through me, upwards and upwards, lighting the dark, dissolving in daylight. It is a specimen, a sample, an infinitesimal bite of creamy and tart toffee, a bare sip of 7-Up's latest lemon-and-lime summertime invention. It comes back in a mortar, smeared on the table, crumbled in school essays and writing comprehensions and debates and the next big thing that will destroy me.

I do not doubt it will stay so, because I have learned to swim, and I do not create without the imminent threat of sinking. I have dipped my toes into the heart of the ocean and felt the beating there, into my chest, beat and beat and beat. The hundreds walk and follow. When I sink, I will, the ocean will open its maw and and crack my bones, and split my jaw, and let pieces rest. And then I will explode, upwards and upwards.

There was a time it was bobbing towards me in a sea of such vastness and mystery, like a pure sunbeam, untouched by the cold. It sunk below my feet, through my body and into my heart, and beat and beat and beat.