I am told that like a phoenix from the ashes I rise; I was unprepared for the lay over ’til take off.

The apathy before drowning.

Not from the inability to swim, but the relentless swim to shore. At first the fight is desperate, but as I stroke and stroke without a shore in view, day in and day out, my limbs tire. After a time I begin to stop caring about reaching the shore. Then a surge of survival, revival, desire to thrive again surges and the paddle continues–though often weaker than before. Then the clouds turn from gray to nothing as darkness ensnares the ocean. All is black, then numb; I cannot distinguish the texture of the water from the oppressive night. “Rejoicing with those who rejoice” only offers solace if there are those in view rejoicing, but the few, far-out souls in the waves are also tiring of fighting the current.

In my mind, I know the unseen shore is close, but I have paddled so long I know my limbs do not have much longer. Apathy is the enemy. It is the undertow, the perilous surf, the frigid water. It is strengthened to demonic levels by the oppressive night of circumstance that suffocates the ocean and masks any shore. I know that on shore I can reconnect, renew, redirect, resurrect, but I must fight apathy.

And then I feel it. The beacon on shore. On shore? Above shore? Above the dark? Transcending? Descending? Wherever it is, I feel it. I cannot see it, but I feel the light, as if it had solidified and trails across the infinite abyss of soul and psyche: a lifeline from God. As long as I feel the light, I can pull my self to shore, or at least tie it around my waist and be slowly pulled until I have the strength to fight the sea anew.