Boots Do Not Walk

Sometimes when the earth cracks open you fall inside.

It isn’t a sweeping plunge from a cliff involving the use of gravity, velocity, or sanity.

It is as if, one moment, you are riding the rough tide of a sunny day and the next you are snapped under the waves of a new moon sea at midnight.

Descent is not quick. But it is constant. Dread. Like lead boots pulling you down under the surface of the water, seeping into your ears with echoes, and swabbing your eyes with haze. The boots have no straps to grab. And even if they did my arms could never rival the weight that I did this.

I did this to my child.

On my fall, I pass over every effort I took to try to find out just what I should do with my baby. They were all there watching me fall. Following me with their eyes. Mouths closed. Expressionless.

I passed them by without panic. Powerless. Sinking.

For all that we know of and all that we trust in others, there are things that we will never understand of each other. Considering yourself the vehicle that damages your baby is otherworldly.

Trying to find answers is consuming.

Understanding that you are the reason for everything that is happening is consumption.

Even if, just for a while. You end.

I never reached the bottom. But I still feel the weight of the ocean in my dreams.

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