Every single time that I try to write, I sit down. I start something. I have a fabulous idea. I have a purpose. I quote something that inspires me. Then I become pathetic. I am hiding something. I am afraid. Something in my head won't allow my heart to move through these little fingers of mine.

I am suffocating.
I am choking.
I am drowning.

And of course all of that is a metaphor, for the fact that I lost my father, right?
I mean, that's what it comes down to I suppose.

I ache for the deep Pacific ocean. For its salty mystery.
For fish and for legitimate love.

I long for a 1970s mustache and green shag carpet.
I long for Volkswagons without seatbelts, and for sandcastles.

I ache for high tide and rip tide and red tide and tiny bodies tumbling around under water,
and buckets full of sand crabs.

I feel those rocks beneath my bare feet.
Scraped knees.

I was always searching for something.
I could never climb high enough,
or dive deep enough into the chaos.