Mother Teresa

It comes in waves I guess, there's never any rhyme or reason to it. Not like the moon and the waves of the ocean. If it were that way, necessary preparation would be easy; I would know exactly when to come ashore, exactly when to go home.


But no, there is no forewarning. The gloom comes out of nowhere, and the waves crash ashore; giving no thought to the sand, the fish, me. Contrasting waves of pain and time, that can't and won't cease. Often, I find myself caught in these waves, wondering why I let myself get so close to the water, get so close to the edge.

I just can't help it. The water is too beautiful, and the smell is overwhelmingly endearing. The water is the perfect temperature, and the color is a clear, soft, blue. It PLEADS with me to bask in it.

So I swim, and at points I can forget about the pain.
And I am happy.

I am happy until the waves come back.

One day, though, the ocean will be my home.
I will live there, love there, and the waves won't come back.
They won't come back because I won't let them.

It will be my home;
and I can do that.


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