you feel around in the darkness, upon the coldness of small tiles lain in perfect rows along a half-wet floor. you’ve never been there before. it’s the bottom. you’ve heard a lot about this place.
and no amount of tears seem to bring you any closer to understanding what and how or why it might be happening. and the saltiness brings no salvation this time – but it usually helps, it usually helps! you let the tears go anyway and watch as they dry gritty on the floor. the grout and the salt become one and the same. you run your fingertips across the rough. you feel bruises form on bones [indented with the squares of the tiles that cool your flushed cheeks and mind] below your skin pressed into the cold for hours, you assume, in the darkness.
and you laugh at your hopeless, simple imagination that can’t even take your mind off the hard cold salty grouted tiled floor and further from the blackest darkness on the bottom. you have no idea what time it is or how long you’ve been idle but you’ll bet it’s 3am and you’ll hope morning brings a gloomy day and the sun will stay hidden behind a blanket of clouds.
and then finally after those seemingly endless hours
you drag yourself across the cold hard floor
across the tears that dried so long ago in the darkness you now know
and find the blankets of a bed
and steal them instead.
and you wrap yourself in sheets, in your own arms, and stare at the nothing until you see worms of light moving at the backs of your closed eyes and you listen to white noise that appears as a piercing hum from too much silence and you pull those sheets up and over your head and wait anxiously for light to break through curtains that try their best to keep the darkness in
and the happiness out.
[happiness doesn’t seem to belong here right now.]
because maybe you want to feel like this. because maybe ups and downs make you feel alive. because maybe
down is really just
and you know, it’s always all about perspective.