Spiraling Out

I took a deep dive again after a long time of hiatus. The strong smell of chlorine, saltiness of tears and steely... blood? Is that blood? It looks red, but I couldn't tell amidst all the water around me. I could feel the pressure tightening on me as I dove deeper. I tried to eyeball the depth of the pool, but the bottom pit was invisible.

Perhaps it was deeper than I remember?

It's been a while since I last went swimming. My limbs didn't work like they used to, but muscle memory kicked in one way or another. I remembered to take a long breath before diving. I remembered having to minimalize the rotation of my body. I needed this, I told myself, but I already knew the reason why I dove in the first place.

The lungs began to revolt. Air, it screamed. My legs and arms almost went numb, but at least I saw the bottom of the pool. Looks cold, desolate. Perfect.

It was only after the body began to relax itself that it started to make sense. When I was one with the water. A sense of surrender. A relief.

When my eyes fluttered closed. Black out. The words began to form itself. I was in too deep. Drowning. Floating. Whichever one was the truth, I felt both beyond my senses.

In the depth of my sorrow and self-wallow, I found the old-age demon. She's still there, looming. We almost forgot about her. And diving deep is the only way I would find her again.

---

They found me again, tearful, one hand almost reaching the box of sharp stationery, one hand hugging the speaker blasting my comfort playlist. The last thing I remember was journaling on my bed, thinking about my past and my future. I guess a certain kind of memory kicked in. Or perhaps I was intoxicated with the desire to write morbid things once again, after a while.

Why haven't you written again? She asked me. After being sane for the most part of my last few years, I outgrew the alter egos. I outran my demon. But at what cost?

The pieces have lost their edges. It's no longer jigsaw puzzles of enigma, just boring tiles of disposable pulps. The metaphors have lost their complexities. Just mere analogies as flat as pancakes under a truck. I gave in to the harsh realities, blending in with the faceless mucks. Just another replacable cog in the machine. I'm dying inside, and the antidepressants turned my brain away to the other side. See, we're being productive today. Great work!

I... I'll write again. I replied, meekly. She smiled approvingly, then disappeared.

I'm left with the messy bedroom, speaker still blasting, taken away from me. Worried faces surrounding me. I'm grateful, but at the same time, I wonder, how did I become such a mess? 

A dangerous dive, that one. Next time I won't be so careless.

Fitter. Happier. More productive.

Now that I know she's still alive, will it resurface this time?