We might have drowned.

No, not in despair or self-pity. Or anxiety; can one drown in anxiety? I’ve never heard that feeling associated with the action of drowning. No, it was drowning in the literal sense.


The kind which never fully stops. One could have been mistaken yesterday’s skies would cease crying. But they were really playing some cruel joke. You see, heaven laid like a lover upon the earth. It was as if flight was no longer necessary to whisk through rain droplets in the sky. At one point the area seemed to be exhaling its breath just as people do on frigid winter days. To the contrary, rather, it was simply clouds resting, even if only for a moment.

Must be hard floating up so high for thousands of years; perhaps that is why we must endure fog. Even the skies need rest.

We might have drowned.

The kind that begins with ever-increasing puddles. No matter how well-intentioned one is at maneuvering round the amassing puddles turning to streams and rivers and lakes. The kind of drowning that starts with soggy grass. And soon the grass seems to disappear completely and all one finds himself walking upon is greenish and brownish mud. Mud that sucks a person’s feet into it. Upon the short sinking, that person finds himself remarking aloud I think we all might soon drown.

After the little machines beeping, warning an empty building of impending malcontent weather approaching, crying aloud: TORNADO, and a sudden mid-afternoon downpour, which must have seemed like only a sprinkle to that forefather, Noah, the clouds suddenly broke apart and blue sky and sunshine appeared on stage.

We might have drowned if it were not for Earth’s ulterior motive, whatever that may be. Will we find Earth’s motive? Its voice thunders on the current roaring of the wind while the Arctic begins, once again, to crush us with bitter chills.


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