I feel like I’ve been sinking
for so long
the bottom of the sea
started feeling familiar.
No sunlight here.
No noise.
Just pressure—
constant, crushing,
quiet enough
to make you forget
what breathing freely
used to feel like.
At first
I fought it.
Kicked toward the surface,
reached for light,
told myself
I wasn’t meant
to stay this deep.
But exhaustion
changes things.
Eventually
you stop fighting
what keeps pulling you under.
You let the dark
wrap around you
like something almost comforting.
And that’s the dangerous part—
how pain
can become home
if you live in it long enough.
How loneliness
starts sounding like peace.
How silence
starts feeling safer
than hope.
But somewhere
beneath all this weight,
beneath the wreckage
and the parts of me
that settled here years ago—
there’s still movement.
Still a pulse.
Still something inside me
remembering
there’s a surface
above all this.
And maybe
I haven’t drowned yet.
Maybe
I’m just lost
deep enough
to forget
I was built
to rise.
Through the Fog 