One after another, they roll down in rivers, following the familiar ravines of salt previously carved by pains less immediate than the current one that engulfs me. Taking on a dull ache, they pool in the back of my mind till my quick blinks and tear soiled fingers can abate them no longer and they pour out with what seems like no end. Down my cheeks and off my chin. Without the heaving sobs that wrack my entire body, the little drops of water would land perfectly in the same spot, slowly dampening the pillow I clutch to my chest, but since I am harrowed up with the feeling of never being able to get enough breathe, my little drops of water lay speckled in disarray without any pattern, without any purpose but to simply exist as a symbol of my purposelessness. I lay scattered about in disarray, fragments of what I supposed myself to be; shattered from the impending weight that is my future. Endless possibilities pool in the front of my mind and block out any rational thought that could slip through and give a whisper of reason in my irrational thoughts. One on top of the other they pile. Questions of what will I do, what will I be? How can I ever become all that I’m supposed to be when I lay shattered into shards not even as big as the speckled spots on my pillow?

Amidst this deafening torrent of “you will never be enough,” and “give up,” a whisper does slip through. A reassuring whisper that I am not alone. Nor have I ever been. I take that singular thought and cling desperately to it as a tidal wave of scalding self-criticisms and terrifyingly accurate judgments about my flaws, my faults, the fears I hold closest to my heart that would like nothing better than to drown me in hopelessness. My tiny life raft, in a sea of tears, grows and shrinks with how much care and thought I put into it, and honestly, sometimes I forget about it altogether and sink into the depths of a gentle subconscious that beckons for me to come deeper and live beneath the waves for awhile. But that small whisper advises me that the waves are there to make me stronger abd better, just as long as I cling to my little raft. So I do. I fasten myself on, even when the winds whip at my hair and drive me hazardously to uncharted waters with tentacled appendages that grasp at my wrists and arms with tiny suckers that leave their scars. In time of calm, I mend my little raft and piece together my shattered soul to be stronger and better then it was before, listening to the whisper in my ear, always encouraging me to keep going. No matter how dense the clouds are, or how heavy the rain, the light will always break through. And though I still have the ravines of salt that fill from time to time, and little moon scars from darker years, the sun has dried up my drops of water and any lingering doubts that previously haunted my mind are kept at bay by that still small voice.