I suppose this is to tell you that I’m still here

That I’m still there.

I could promise you I’ll write more

I could assure you I know what this post is for

But that wouldn’t be true, would it?

I can’t lie to you, that I forgot to pick up my pen,

Because somewhere I got lost between the waves of emotions

The days of surviving, wondering when I stopped living.

Somewhere between the reality pouring into my dreams

Reminding me that things still happen, even when I sleep

When I feel safest, when things are still.

When they are quiet, so gentle and fragile. When My ears no longer ring from the sound of the alarms, telling me to wake up. It is quiet when I can hear the breeze, and listen to it make melodies in the air.  It is truly quiet when I sit and don’t question my existence.

The quiet is the peace that lets me sleep another night. That gives me the ability to live, and not just survive.

The days where the loud, crashing waves of anxiety and insecurity don’t pull me into the dark sea. Rummaging for my everything to be swallowed in the deep.

It is a rarity, just to be.