I spent three days in a daze two years ago, and three days lost again this year. I woke up and forgot what it was like to have a heart; all around was silence and silence and silence. The type of silence that shoots straight into the very core of all you know, as if you are noise and the silence is life.

In those moments I wasn't a soul, but an ocean.

This is what happens when a human body transitions into the sea, you see. It is drowning and suffocation, and no amount of screaming produces sound. There are no cries, only the murky crash of waves and the gurgling of sea foam. It is breathless crying, sorrow and endless emptiness, as if the entirety of the universe condensed itself into the tiny space between your rib-cage, and the stars burnt out. It is as if all the stars burnt out and their deaths caused the same death in you. The same sorrow, the same pain, the same loss - only magnified.

The coral reefs are stained black, and the sand is ash. The spaces where your lungs once were are now monuments to things you have lost. There are relics in places where there should be blood, and there is death in places where life once was. And as you feel this, you know it is inescapable. You cannot swim, only sink. Your heart is tar, an anchor sinking into the depths, until you become the sea floor.

-

"Is he really worth loving with all this pain?"

"Always."

(A.H.Z)