Gravity is a Pebble on a Beach

There must be a moment, right before death, that you relax and give in to the inevitable.  I imagine this most with drowning.  The body, immersed in that which gives life, violently opposes it. Your legs must kick desperately, and your toes must point toward the ground, searching fruitlessly for something to stand upon.  Your arms, reach upward, grasping for air it cannot harbor.  And then the calm must come.

Lately, I’ve been tripped up with gravity and my need for it. The weight of it is only opposed by water.  There is something magnificent about the pressure that pulls us to shore, that unopposable force that ties us to who we are and what we need.  But what if the truth floats more within the water than it does amidst the pebbles on the beach?

Is gravity the devils advocate, the noose around my neck…or my safety, my oxygen.  Does my body search for the ground beneath me out of habit, necessity, or trickery. I don’t think I know yet.

Saying goodbye feels  a little like the water.  Perhaps not leaving the shore.  The violent opposal of the inevitable is exhausting.  Kicking, screaming, aching…I tried everything to find a ground to stand upon. Staying felt more like seeking gravity…leaving felt alive.  No one understands this and I feel tricked.

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