When I Smash into the Reef

It doesn’t happen often. In fact, it hardly happens at all. In the nearly two years I’ve been on the road, I can count the instances on one hand.

It comes like the Boogeyman, after I’ve fallen asleep. I wake in the middle of the night, sweating through the sheets; my insides gone hollow and a cold breath filling the empty space. My heartrate staccatos and I don’t remember where I am. Then, slowly, things begin to filter back.

I’m in my room. Yes, that’s it. I’m in Australia. I live here. I’ve been in Australia a year. Longer.

Then things speed up. Information rushes back; hits me in waves. I’m ten thousand miles from home. I haven’t seen my family in two years. My best friend is in another country. My brother’s having a baby. My mother misses me and my grandfather’s sick and my dad is recovering from a horrible bike accident. And I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time.

And waves keep coming. Punishing. Knocking me backwards.

And somewhere above the crash, there’s a question hanging in the spray. One that sounds like it should be simple.

It asks: What the fuck are you doing?

I cough water and sputter: ‘Traveling,’ but it isn’t good enough. It’s a postcard written in the rain, the ink distorts and slides down the paper.

It asks again: What are you doing?

I say: ‘Seeing the world. Trying to experience something different.’ And then I say: ‘Pushing myself. Making space.’

Then the question changes. Becomes simpler still.

Why?

I answer. ‘Because life is a prism. Because I’m inspired by the people and places light passes through. Because I need time to create something worthwhile and these experiences will be my tools.’

But the sacrifice.

‘It’s worth it.’

Is it worth it if you fail?

‘What?’

Is it worth it if you fail? Because you’re going to fail. You’re not good enough. You’ll never translate any of this. Nothing you write means anything.

And I’ll think and I’ll search for a response but I won’t find one, and the waves will smash me into the reef.

I’ll lie awake, blinking in the dark, convinced I’ve fucked everything up. Thrown my life away. Wandered too far and got lost.

Sometimes I’ll fall asleep. Sometimes I won’t.

And in the morning, I’ll watch as objects outline themselves in faded gray. I’ll try to sleep but won’t be able to. I’ll rub my eyes and stand. Dress barefoot on the cold floor.

And I’ll go out, into whatever room I’ve got, and I’ll write. And I don’t know if it’s going to save me. And I don’t know if it will be worthwhile.

But here’s what I do know: you’re only smashed when you stay smashed.

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