I can tell I’m not tapped in. I can tell I’m only skimming the surface. My brain has all the gear: the wet suit, the tank, the flippers, but it knows right now if it dove in it would most likely drown. So it’s grabbing a Sol with lime and basking in the sunshine and honestly I can’t blame it.

The mountains reach around me like toothless gums – pink and brown; barren. I’m in the middle of the mouth and in this moment I’m afraid I’ll never become anything. My brain is comatose and the mountains grin from horizon to horizon.

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