If my soul were a lake and you were to stand on the edge of a pier looking in, you could never spot the bottom.  For it is not crystal blue or black with mud but rather dense.  Denser than the wood you stand on; denser than the mud that wood finds stability in. The surface is a reflection of our own face, the lines of experience soften the face: with wisdom comes compassion.  Take a dive in and experience the warm touch, the cooling sensation of love and hope, passion and care.  Bathe in them and relax knowing I would never let you sink too deep to which the pressure becomes crushing and the atmosphere far more volatile. The light doesn’t penetrate to the very depths of my being, the depth that only grows with each passing moment.  Pressure bears weight on what once was, a note tied to a rock thrown here.  It’s a message of desire and need that will never be seen in the depths of this sordid place. Even I’ve forgotten the overwhelming loneliness that it persuades, the deafening silence.  That was, until you turned and walked away, upset and frustrated.  The bubble burst forth from the depths, breathing, even if only for a moment, that which I have been too afraid to find.  The breath I took wasn’t nearly deep enough; I’ve been holding my breath for years.  Though that’s not a portion of me, it is a brief moment of proof that I’m still here.  I’m still alive, buried within myself, waiting for a time when I can breathe.