I can feel it slipping faster than I can hold onto it, like liquid through my hands. I can remember what it was like to think. Thoughts cascading from one to the next, to the next, to the next, and each would be a story, a picture, a dream or at the least would contain the possibility of something.

Then came the nightmares: Dark and ugly they soon moved in and became the things you cant reveal to anybody, and slowly, over the years, they took over, consuming the thoughts and filling the space.

And so I lie here. The water has been burnt off. The black is dancing on the river bed and singing that it’s lovely and I should dive in. The dams that held me burst a long time ago. I’m gasping for air and between surfacing I’m choking on sand.

I sink and rise, like I’m sitting on the chest of a giant and at the top I can see the people on the banks, laughing and playing. Sometimes they see me, sometimes they hear me, sometimes they stare and sometimes they turn away.

And then one offers their hand.

And I take it.

And I hope they’re strong enough to pull me out.

And I hope I’m strong enough to hold on.