philippeL

Air fills my lungs, yet the surge crests over me anyway. ​The sea I dread is void of salt, devoid of tides, lacking the mercy of a horizon. It is a mass of unformed thought, discarded iterations of self, and interrogations that refuse to decay. Morning arrives like an unearthing—exhuming a figure I fail to recognize. Evening closes in solemn burial, entrenching that same stranger beneath quiet earth. ​The sages promised consciousness was a beacon. They omitted that light merely sharpens the abyss. ​This existence feels less like a legacy than an unrequested debt. I shoulder it with Sisyphian resignation, skin split against the granite. Camus demanded we imagine him content. I try. Yet serenity feels like a exiled dialect, spoken beyond borders I cannot cross. ​Perhaps this is not a violent submersion, but a polite dissolution. Submersion strikes with force; dissolution settles as an imperceptible erosion. Particle by particle, conviction by conviction, until the glass reflects only