Breakpoint.

1 - The Beginning

I was at the break point.

It was the still blackness, that brought my attention towards that ever-growing clichéd bright light.

Perhaps, I thought, this, my truest fear, was but an illusion. The bubbles floating above my head,  the twisting, turning, and jerking of a body no longer controlled by a soul, but encased in a cold, unforgiving blanket of unconsciousness. The heavy feeling of regret, and the stream of salt seeping slowly down my trachea towards my bronchi and into my poor, useless lungs. If only I had gills.

A body aimlessly floating with the fishes who ponder their last three seconds of life as strings of pure gold, hand in hand, wave to the sand.

Stems of sunlight reflect in my eyes, a blur of blue bliss. One hour, two hours go by but it feels like a life time, I feel weightless yet heavy and in that moment the scratches of seaweed tickles my toes.

Perhaps, I thought again, that the last goodbye I said was really the last goodbye, as I left the last impression on my mother that morning, a kiss on her forehead as I closed the door shut, went down those all so familiar four flights of stairs to catch the 7:41 AM bus.

For some reason, I always walked on the right side of the road towards my bus stop, never on the footpath, I somehow thought the sound of the broken glass crunching under my feet was almost soothing, like white noise when you're trying to sleep.

That last goodbye turning into the first hello from another child, maybe the mother of the girl who died after her last goodbye to catch the 7:41 bus would see the soul of her daughter through the sea blue eyes of the baby, the mothers could even be friends, and all I would know is that this first hello lead to an abundance of first everything's, haircuts, words, steps.

But if I woke from this illusion, I would say another possible last goodbye the next morning as I walked on the right side of the road over broken glass to catch the 7:41 bus.