There’s a weird situation you end up in when the present isn’t safe, the future isn’t safe, and even though the ghosts are up in the attic next to the luggage you got for the trip that never happened, you still feel the need to feel something other than the occasional gasp of air at the surface of infinity.

When you finally find an underground air pocket, a raft to float on, or ground shallow enough with the current tides that it allows you to briefly stand - you don’t ever want to let it go.

Time heals all wounds, but it also always forces you out of safe havens and back into the deep waters. The raft eventually deflates, the tides eventually change, and the pocket of air eventually runs out - even faster if you’re not the only one breathing in its oxygen.

Once back in deeper waters, you find yourself surrounded by people with boats, people exploring right next to you with SCUBA gear - even some who just seem to know how to breathe underwater. But every time you try to talk to them to find out why you never even got a snorkel, they can’t seem to hear what you’re trying to say through your mouthful of seawater.

You try to gesture that you’re running out of breath, frantically asking with your arms if they could follow you to the surface so you could not die real quick and maybe ask them a question about how to breathe like they do or get your own boat/gear.

But your breathless convulsing and wild gesturing - while you fight your body’s instincts to surface out of hope that you’ve found somebody who can help you understand - betray your good intentions.

They think your unpredictability is making their environment less safe with all the flailing and they don’t like feeling rushed. They don’t really want to go to the surface right now anyways, and have plenty of air right here to breathe.

So you find yourself back at the surface again, gasping, desperately scanning for the sign of a raft, or an indication of low tide and somewhere to stand for a while so you can get some sleep finally.

And when you finally find yourself breathing again without gasping and struggling to break the surface, you realize something. If you go to sleep now, when you wake up, the tides will have returned, and you’ll be back underwater again, rested and still drowning.