Drowning.

Drowning.

Not the absence of air

in the lungs.

Dashing.

Not in a race from start to finish.

But.

Drowning that which

inhibits the exhibition

of

what is greater.

Dashing.

That which constrains you,

against the rocks

proverbially, metaphorically shifting to reality.

Real world, grand stage.

Rushing, lapping and bubbling

mind racing, thoughts cresting

sounds enveloping, filling and serving as counselor and comforter.

The stream. Not of data

measured in kilobytes, but of water flowing freely.

Harkening for that, which darkens your countenance, for it to be cast in…

Drowning.