At this point in my life

No words ring truer than those of C.S. Lewis.

In speaking of this desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both.

And a bit later, on our remembering,

For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. Do you think I am trying to weave a spell? Perhaps I am; but remember your fairy tales. Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them.

They never tell you that.

The emptiness is intermittent.

You’ll have moments of clarity. Moments of lucidity. Moments where you can feel your fingers and wiggle your toes.

Then you’re back in the diving bell sinking. Deeper depths, more pressure, less oxygen.

Light travels differently underwater. Speech turns to song. Song turns to sight.

It’s beautiful down here. But dark. And it only seems to get darker.