I Am Drowning

I am drowning, but there is no water. The air is thick, pressing in from all sides, yet no one else seems to notice. I should struggle, I think, but the thought drifts away before I can act on it. It seems unnecessary. Or maybe it is simply too late.

A man should want to live. That is what they tell me. But wanting is a strange thing—it flickers, unreliable, like a candle in a wind I can’t see. And if I do not want to live, what then? Will someone arrive, a clerk perhaps, with a paper in hand, informing me that my resignation has been denied? Will I be expected to keep breathing out of sheer obligation?

I look around. The world continues. People pass by, absorbed in their errands, their duties, their lives. I am drowning, but no one sees. Perhaps I am not drowning at all. Perhaps I was never meant to breathe in the first place.