I want to explain to him that I am living for the joy of life, that I am living to defy death. I want to tell him that contained in my rebellion against the waves is my ability to release the deepest portion of my inner self. I want to tell him this, but as he does not join me in the ocean, I reason that he does not want to know. What I am doing is what I am. If he cannot understand this, he cannot understand me. I tell myself this and crash up here against the waves again and again, pitting my will against theirs. I beat the remorse out of my body, and hardly look back to the beach. I look back only when I am afraid I am too afraid That I have drifted out in the tide.
But every time I look back, I see him skimming over the surface of the water, the dappled sunlight doing strange and interesting things to both skin tone and muscle structure. I do not like liking to look at him. I realize that I am only hopelessly fighting the inevitable, but I fight anyway, because it is in my nature. Every time I catch myself staring, I throw myself harder into the surf. I am trying to beat myself out of caring, out of wanting.
I know, somewhere deep inside me, that to want him is wrong. I do not know why i know this, why I believe it, but I do. Perhaps I am only afraid, but my fear seems to be on his behalf. I feel as if I were to touch him, to speak to him, to allow him to understand me, that he would unravel. I believe that I am too much for anyone to handle. I am not good for people in large doses.
I realize suddenly that I am caught in an abnormally strong riptide that is swiftly pulling me away from shore. I can no longer touch my feet to the ocean floor, and am too far beyond the breaking waves to use them as a booster. I realize almost simultaneously that my muscles are weak and are not behaving as smoothly as normally. I have been running for too long on adrenaline, and have worn myself out without realizing it. This is bad. I know to swim parallel to shore rather than into the current in order to escape its deadly grasp. I keep a clam head, as I must if I am to survive. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice screams for help, and from fear. I ignore it, because noone from shore will be able to hear my wasted breath
But every time I look back, I see him skimming over the surface of the water, the dappled sunlight doing strange and interesting things to both skin tone and muscle structure. I do not like liking to look at him. I realize that I am only hopelessly fighting the inevitable, but I fight anyway, because it is in my nature. Every time I catch myself staring, I throw myself harder into the surf. I am trying to beat myself out of caring, out of wanting.
I know, somewhere deep inside me, that to want him is wrong. I do not know why i know this, why I believe it, but I do. Perhaps I am only afraid, but my fear seems to be on his behalf. I feel as if I were to touch him, to speak to him, to allow him to understand me, that he would unravel. I believe that I am too much for anyone to handle. I am not good for people in large doses.
I realize suddenly that I am caught in an abnormally strong riptide that is swiftly pulling me away from shore. I can no longer touch my feet to the ocean floor, and am too far beyond the breaking waves to use them as a booster. I realize almost simultaneously that my muscles are weak and are not behaving as smoothly as normally. I have been running for too long on adrenaline, and have worn myself out without realizing it. This is bad. I know to swim parallel to shore rather than into the current in order to escape its deadly grasp. I keep a clam head, as I must if I am to survive. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice screams for help, and from fear. I ignore it, because noone from shore will be able to hear my wasted breath
