There’s a flow that doesn’t quite rub me the right way. The danger of influences that surround me pulls me towards the end off of the edge.
I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to do it.
But they keep dragging me towards it.
Every microbe of every bead of every strain of liquid cover me with “influence.” Prayer doesn’t work.
Meditation doesn’t work. My writing dries me when I refuse to dry it out but the sweat of my imagination is sometimes drowned out by that river.
I grasp for the slippery smooth rocks and the grit of the river bed. It exceeds my grasp because I’m trapped on the surface level unable to dive deeper because of the rolling of the river.
But I will rock against the rolling of the river.