#on breathing

[glasswaters]

The winds have stopped.

The water is still, now. It lies, flat and blue, between one edge of the world and the other. The foam has sunk back down. Something inside of it is holding its breath.

The wood underneath your hands is crumbling. Maybe it was the salt that did it, or the water. Maybe it was just time, eating its way through the mast as rot does, weaving strings of soft sickness through strands of oak.

Maybe you've been holding on for too long.

The fabric sticking to your skin has lost its bearing to the whetting teeth of the rolling waves. Your skin is red.

When was the last time you took a breath?

Come, now. This is the time. Underneath you, something hungry has creaked open its jaws. All around you, the sea is waiting.

Holding out for you.

[writeherlifeoutloud-blog]

resuscitation

it’s been so long since i’ve allowed myself to take a breath, to breathe in, deep, explore the the atmosphere and examine the openness of my soul. It’s been too long since i’ve allowed myself to let another in, let you in and hear me, my heart beat. I think it was dead. I thought it had stopped beating. But now i hear its pulse and i hear it pause, hesitate, waiting on you to grab my chest, push down, hard, find its rhythm, regulate it, make me know it’s okay to breathe, and it’s okay to not do it alone. 

but i’m afraid i can’t depend on you giving me oxygen, that i have to go at it, alone, again, just me myself and i. and i’m scared if i give into you this time that i won’t be able to resuscitate myself

except i think i just realized it’s already too late. i already gave myself up to you

body

mind 

& soul.

[aphrasebook]

And there's rooms locked in your body even you will never find.

"On Breathing" by Jade Sylvan

[awoodenpen]

We are doing a race today. A mud run race. The Rugged Maniac. A 5K with mud and obstacles and stuff that I guess I'll find out about. It's been about eight months since I did my first one. I did it in about 55 minutes, obstacles and all. That wasn't the point but it was nice to achieve. I'm different than who I was last October, different than I was last April, when I left Brooklyn. I've felt frustrated about some things, but I've rarely felt my old mark of sadness. I never thought that possible. I've been reading Murakami's "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running", his training for and running in the 2005 New York City Marathon. I read it and look at where I am and what I am and I-64 screaming past me and one thing, and only one thing, stays in my head. It is the repeated line from Vonnegut's short story that he published in Ladies' Home Journal, "Long Walk to Forever": One foot in front of the other; through leaves, over bridges. I know why - exactly why - and it doesn't need to be said.