It starts with a drip.

A drop falls on my hand and I look at it, mildly annoyed. Shaking my hand, I continue with my evening, my hand slightly damp.

This is how it starts. A drop falls and leaves a wet patch that chafes and irritates me.

A second drop falls, followed shortly after by a cup of water thrown on my head. Gasping, I look around, soaked to the shoulders and wondering where it came from.

Before I know it, I’m in the middle of an icy ocean, fully clothed and wondering where the fuck my shore is. Shaking, cold, I swim towards the light until I can drag myself out of the water, to stand, dripping and shivering; sand caking between my toes as my teeth chatter a rhythym.

That is how it ends.

The trigger is something different each time:

A waft of perfume;

a photo on the wall;

a stray thought that I can’t shake.

A trigger that once pulled, drags me towards it’s culmination.

Sometimes, I walk silently, waiting for the drip.

Other times, I scream and wail; kicking and screaming like a child.

I’m BUSY. Can’t you see I’m busy? I don’t have time to swim right now.

FUCK YOU.

It’s inevitable; the drip.

This is what soul pain is. It starts with a drip and ends with a slow icy slog towards shore, knowing that you’re going to be cleaning sand out of your toes for days.

And you never know what your trigger will be until it hits you, like a brick wall at high speed.

SLAP.

No thought for what you were doing, suddenly you’re swimming.

Again.