Sometimes it feels as though he's treading water; running running running forward and then finally, blissfully discovering he's moved a quarter of an inch. And then he comes crashing down when he remembers he is just son of man, not son of God, and cannot walk on water. He stares at where he's been and how far he's come from beneath the surface. The space between these places seems negligible.

Not good enough. He'll never be out of it.

But this is an ocean he's swimming in. It is vast, limitless; he's never seen so much as the hint of a sandy shore. Of course he'll never be out of it.

And so he sinks, straight to the bottom, son of stones now, curls in the wet sand there (he's given up hope on dry) and sheds salt unto salt until he is empty.

He watches the surface ripple, watches the wind beg it to move, beg him to stir. He does not. He cannot. He is tethered by exhaustion now, too. When night comes, when the moon illuminates the watery tomb that is his world- he marvels at the beauty of it.

The heart-wrenching loveliness that is loneliness, the bitter-sweet solace of his solitude in this space, but most of all, he savors the balm of the all encompassing silence.

He tastes it, appreciates it; and it awakens the need for more.

He surfaces, stands on the water, and he begins to run again.

He wonders if it will always be this way.