They say that drowning feels like falling asleep. But child, the sweet nicotine of breath runs first in, last out. And I can tell you now that drowning doesn’t feel like falling asleep any more than being born does.
Drink the ink, be the stink. I watched you washed ashore, your mind shattered and scattered in a billion grains of glass. And it’s true that there were worse things than deserts and oceans inside my head that day.
I drew your name in the sand but the sea took it back. And in the darkness I still remember the shape of the moon, its smile chalked across the blue of an empty sky. Galaxies and star-chasers hidden, and for a while we were those who found design in entropy. But what of provenance down here in the seventh circle? Do the stars still tell our fortune, my love, when all that’s left to guide me home is the luminescence of jellyfish?
Take your hand from your face. What is it you’re afraid of seeing? Starlight is for the living, they say, and there are only dead suns and broken promises to be found on the endless beach.
Drowning doesn’t feel like falling asleep. To taste the exquisite torture of that one last breath as it waits in blood and mud? To hear the ending scream of your heart? To kill for one last look at the light? It seems, my love, that even the best of us are hardwired for murder. Hush now, child. Hush. Take your hand from your face. Drowning doesn’t feel like falling asleep.
But dying does.
You look to the sand for answers and miss the storm that carried it. And you should have left us alone, rag and bone. You should have left us alone.
The Art of Drowning
What could possibly go wrong?
This series was inspired by a creepy piece of artwork created by Ash. To catch up with more episodes, click on the sub menu.