Lost in the moment, he closed his eyes and typed. No looking to delete. No watching to re-read what he typed. Still, in the moment, he sits . . . thinking. He thinks about his struggles with words, his discontent with the changing seasons, his headache, his frustrations buried deep within his subconscious. How can a mind . . . a mind someone’s had since birth, betray them so much? How can something we use to put these very words on the page decide it wants to be evil some days? How can a mind that controls this body decide some moments aren’t worth its time? How can a mind make you one thing one day and the next you’re reduced to rubble? Compressed into the cement, clamoring for a chance to get out, to be who you were yesterday. But you can’t . . . you can’t because it’s not your mind today. It’s his. Whoever he is. How is that fair? How is pain fair? How is suffering because of one misstep fair? How is any of this fair? I’ve made mistakes. We all have. But to feel as if I’ve broken the hearts of everyone I love because I couldn’t write today, or because work was difficult, or because I was too lazy . . . is awful. To feel down in a rut because one thing didn’t go completely right is cruel. It’s stupid. It’s bogus. It’s downright evil. Our minds aren’t just there to keep us afloat; somedays they’re there to remind us there’s water beneath us, that we can get pulled down because that’s just how the mind wants to feel on that particular day. It’s unfair to drown because of one action, one thought, one idea, one mistake. But that’s just how it works . . . and the longer we dwell, the worse it gets. I just wish I could find a ladder and get out of the damn pool. I’m tired of floating, tired of being fraught with anxiety. I’m tired. But it’s okay. I can swim. I can use floaties. I can do what I need to do to keep my head above water. And I’ll keep treading even if it means I’ll get a little water in my eyes. After all, it’s okay. This pool is huge. There are a lot of us in here together.

*I did fix the grammar, but that’s it. This is a rough draft, and so am I.