I keep almost getting out.
That’s the part that quieted me the most. It isn’t the fall itself. Falling is familiar, and you learn how to endure it. It’s the almost. It’s the brief moment of breathing above water, seeing the light, and feeling the shift before another swell pulls you back under. You don't even get the chance to catch your breath before you're starting over again.
We don't often talk about the quiet toll of that specific loop. It isn't just a single hard moment, or even a series of them you can prepare for. It's the arrival of another wave the second you thought your feet had finally touched solid ground. Eventually, you stop trusting the ground entirely. Even when you reach a place to rest, you stay braced for whatever comes next.
I don't have a way to stop the tide. Much of what moves around us isn't solved by effort or perspective. Some things simply require time, or they exist entirely outside of our control, unfolding on their own terms.
What remains is a quieter truth. Each time the water recedes, you find yourself still here. It doesn't make the cycle any lighter, but it is a consistent record.
If you are standing in a similar place right now, navigating that endless approach to the surface, there is no need to force a clean narrative onto it. Getting pulled back under doesn't undo the distance you've already covered. It is entirely possible for a process to be both meaningful and deeply tiring all at once.
Rest when the weight requires it. Move forward when the space allows. You don't need clarity or certainty to simply stay with the process.
x Angela Bella Morte x
