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| The Life of The Lost Girl: a creative fictional diary, sometimes based on certain factual truths. |
THE VOID
I've been lost for sometime now—the whirlpool of depression pulling me further down the void. I found myself coughing and spluttering as I pulled myself up from the heavy waves that have drowned my existence. I found myself able to move again, to float, and it was time for me to swim back to shore.
My muscles were weak, each stroke to the surface paining me, but I told myself I couldn't drown like that again so I pushed further. Each breath caused my lungs to tighten as if the smallest amount of air was too heavy to consume, pinning them. I started choking. I had held my breath for too long—I forgot how to breathe.
A strong sense of doubt overtakes my willing to continue pushing to the other side, even though I was so close. My legs wouldn't kick anymore, feeling like two solid blocks of concrete, and my arms turned numb, like two frozen poles of ice. With one last breath, I forced my lungs to hold on once more as the dark water took me under again.
I could hear my drowning thoughts muffled and echoing in the ocean, weighing me down. I wanted to scream, but if I did, I would drown for good. I wanted to kick and fight my way back up, but I would sink further down like quicksand. Instead, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sink and drift slowly as if I was about to fall asleep and never wake up.
The voices in the ocean became lost and silent; my body turned light and empty like a feather unable to float. But just as I allowed my lungs to release the pressure and air I held onto, my body began to float to the surface and I'm carried by a sudden harsh wave that crashes onto shore.
I reach out and clench both hands into the soft sand—the sand's grit filling my broken chipped nails. The dark wave pulls and draws back and I'm left naked and exposed in the sand. Coughing and spluttering once again, I catch my breath and open my eyes. Everything is blurry at first and my eyes sting and burn.
Cold and alone, my vision becomes clear and the pain that had consumed me slowly fades as I learn how to breathe properly again. The callings and mocking of the seagulls flying above awakens a part of my mind I had pushed away and was too afraid to face: reality. I was back in it—the world I longed to belong in, but one I feared most.
As I lay there in the sand, raw and torn, I could hear the waves crashing hard against the rocks behind me—I could hear that same voice of doubt and torment within each drift, and the harder the waves crashed, the more it screamed at me. It wanted me back, but I refused.
I pull my hands out from the wet sand—it turns into mud as it slides down my pale blue arms. But as I regain movement in my legs and try to get up, I feel something wet and tight wrapped around my ankle. It's seaweed: the branches of the ocean that refuses to let me go. I try to take it off, I try to rip it off, but it doesn't budge, it only grows tighter—cutting into my flesh. It was there in the moment where I realised it still owned me and it wasn't going to let go of me that easily.
It wanted me to feel like I escaped, that I could live again. It wanted to give me false hope and see how far I could go without running back. It wanted me to return and keep me trapped under its water, promising to keep me safe and numb me of my worries. It didn't want me to leave; it didn't want me to live.
As I stand shivering and exposed to the world, I balance myself, ignoring the waves behind me. I tell myself this is it, my chance, and that this is what I must do in order to live. I may be back for now, but I'm bound to this dark void. Who knows how long it will be until another storm erupts—until I fall once more—and when the ocean pulls me back in.
I reach out and clench both hands into the soft sand—the sand's grit filling my broken chipped nails. The dark wave pulls and draws back and I'm left naked and exposed in the sand. Coughing and spluttering once again, I catch my breath and open my eyes. Everything is blurry at first and my eyes sting and burn.
Cold and alone, my vision becomes clear and the pain that had consumed me slowly fades as I learn how to breathe properly again. The callings and mocking of the seagulls flying above awakens a part of my mind I had pushed away and was too afraid to face: reality. I was back in it—the world I longed to belong in, but one I feared most.
As I lay there in the sand, raw and torn, I could hear the waves crashing hard against the rocks behind me—I could hear that same voice of doubt and torment within each drift, and the harder the waves crashed, the more it screamed at me. It wanted me back, but I refused.
I pull my hands out from the wet sand—it turns into mud as it slides down my pale blue arms. But as I regain movement in my legs and try to get up, I feel something wet and tight wrapped around my ankle. It's seaweed: the branches of the ocean that refuses to let me go. I try to take it off, I try to rip it off, but it doesn't budge, it only grows tighter—cutting into my flesh. It was there in the moment where I realised it still owned me and it wasn't going to let go of me that easily.
It wanted me to feel like I escaped, that I could live again. It wanted to give me false hope and see how far I could go without running back. It wanted me to return and keep me trapped under its water, promising to keep me safe and numb me of my worries. It didn't want me to leave; it didn't want me to live.
As I stand shivering and exposed to the world, I balance myself, ignoring the waves behind me. I tell myself this is it, my chance, and that this is what I must do in order to live. I may be back for now, but I'm bound to this dark void. Who knows how long it will be until another storm erupts—until I fall once more—and when the ocean pulls me back in.
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