Pursuit of the Tide

This time, it slithers and creeps through the pores and the cracks and adulterated surfaces of my mind. Clinging tightly with rigid, steel like talons to the curtains of my eyes, producing only a mated light for the grey spaces between my reality and make believe. It breathes and sways and wobbles in a slumped stance of motionless calm, or yet, a protruding yet subtle state of defeat. This time, it wraps it's spider like legs around my waste, squeezing each ounce of belief and hope through the canvas of the shell that I know I have become, screaming the alarm of escape, to ravage through the forest of denial and break through the delusion of self worth, or pity or doubt or pride. It glides, slowly, and with it a chill from a wind not long forgotten but so suddenly present and shocking, it pulsates through the very depth of my bones. This time, I grow weary from the constant shift of fear, its ebb and flow, it's torrent pace that engulfs us all and strips the light of the moon from the stars with a violent collision like a wrench through a spoke, taking the particles of the night under it's fingernails and washing it away in a sea of uncertainty. This time, I feel this slither, this creeping, this sway, this wobble and I dig my toes deeply into the ground waiting, bracing for the opportunity to spring forward, every inch of my skin bellowing out to connect with the flow of the tide as it comes surging by, desperate to hold on. This time, it will not pass me by, this time, I will not close these eyes and allow the light of this dance that we engage to play it's final note with me sauntering idly by. This time...