Saturday, October 22, 2016


It comes in waves. It always comes in waves. 

When you're born, you float on the salt water as you enter the stream that, as the years go by, will lead into the saltwater body that takes up about 67% of the earth. You learn that this is the ocean, and the ocean is full of creatures that you cannot see lurking underneath you; you are utterly ignorant of what you are up against, for you've yet to experience the turbulence of the big, wide ocean. 

At first, you're in awe––upon the kiss of the horizon, bursts of golden heaven and soft rose petals dance into the slumber of night––and nothing could possibly be more beautiful than the thump against your chest fluttering up to your mind.

The sunset came to its close to warn the world of the coming storm.

Then the first storm hits.
You’ll float on the water, but before you know it, the current sucks you in and the waves crush the air in your lungs, drowning you, and you’re gasping for just a molecule of oxygen, your arms flailing around underwater and your neck craning to at least get your nose up for just one breath. You think you’re going to die. You don’t have enough oxygen in your blood so your body suffocates, and soon enough, you can’t move. 

Sometimes the storm lasts for days, weeks, months, even years. When the waters finally calm, you're cold, frightened, shivering––weak. The sunlight touches your skin, and you're overwhelmed by the goodness but don't want to believe that it's real because the current can pull you under all over again at any moment. The ocean stretches for miles beyond you, so far that you can’t see; the ocean endlessly falls into depths which you cannot reach, and you’re afraid because you can’t see or feel when the next storm will come. 

But you keep floating, because something––love––is carrying you without you knowing it. And eventually, you can swim on your own. You are breathing. Feel the movement of your chest going up and down, the exchange of carbon dioxide and oxygen flowing through you, even if your once fluttering heart aches from the burning salt water––you are breathing. 

It comes in waves––the hurt, the healing, the love––all in waves. 

It's easy to tell you not to be afraid. But I'm telling you that it's okay to be afraid of what you can't see. That's why so many of us have anxiety issues about the future––we can't see it, and there's way for us to predict it. Although I claim I'm "psychic" because I get these vibes and feelings about certain people, but I'm not always right, of course. But I have to trust that, no matter how hopeless and dark things seem to be, everything will happen the way it's supposed to happen. 

People suck, let's be real. People are what cause the storms in our lives, so I guess I'm just trying as best as I can to not be the one that causes a storm for someone else. Granted, we can't always do that because we're imperfect human beings. Anyway, now I'm just babbling on and on and I'm tired of hearing my voice in my head as I write this. 


Alena Daaé

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