Until I Can Breathe
Sometimes life doesn’t fall apart all at once.
Sometimes it just becomes heavier.
You keep moving. You keep doing what you have to do. You keep telling yourself you can manage a little longer.
But underneath it all, you’re exhausted.
I wrote Until I Can Breathe about that feeling.
Like swimming through darkness with no idea where the surface is, carrying more than anyone else can see, but still pushing forwards because somewhere ahead there has to be air.
Until I Can Breathe
Sometimes life feels
like being trapped
beneath dark water.
Not drowning all at once.
That would almost be easier.
But swimming.
Still moving.
Still forcing your arms
through the cold, black weight
of everything
you are carrying.
Your lungs begin to ache.
Then burn.
Then scream.
Every part of you
is begging
to rise.
Just one breath.
One mouthful of air.
One second
where surviving
does not hurt so much.
But when you look above you,
there is no sky.
No light.
Only stone.
The roof of a cave
pressing down above your head,
silent,
merciless,
unmoving.
And you realise
there is nowhere to rise.
No place to stop.
No air
where you need it most.
So you keep swimming.
Even when your body
is exhausted.
Even when panic
claws its way
through your chest.
Even when something inside you
is quietly crying,
I cannot do this much longer.
You keep pushing forwards
because backwards
is darkness,
above you
is stone,
and the only chance
you have of breathing again
is somewhere
you still cannot see.
And still,
with whatever strength remains,
you keep swimming,
because somewhere ahead,
even if you cannot see it yet,
there has to be air.
— J. S. Summers