Poem

those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we can not breathe
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished
for something else.
- david whyte

Kira Ryder had this poem posted on her website, noting that it was shared with her by someone else in response to an earlier post.

I have slipped beneath the surface for sure. I have struggled to breathe and I have seen the distorted reflections above mirrored to me below.

I would not have it any other way.

Because I know pain, simple pleasures intoxicate me.