Quicksand

Quicksand

Sand irritates the eyes. Gritty. Draining it of the moisture while leaving behind abrasions on the delicate places that the eye lid is supposed to protect. It does not help that the sweat beading above the brow now threatens to drip off the eyelash, blurring the vision.

Sweat in the eye could be a reprieve from the pain – a little moisture to wash away the sand, but what gives pause is the microscopic salt that body releases within the sweat itself. Even the body is against you.

Sands shifts and tiny crystals endanger the eye. Hands restrained by the sand pressing all around. One false move and the body goes down.

Down. Down. Down. Smothering the air from the lungs. Bits of sand coating the hair. Scattered all over the face. Sand everywhere.

Heart pounding so hard that the ears are ringing. What else is there left to do?

I reach up to….

Wait….

I REACH up…

My hand breaks free. My hands gently examine my face. Wet. Not gritty. How odd is that? My cheeks are slick and my eyes burn a little, but there was no sand anywhere to be found.

I recognize this. This was not sand at all. No. This was something else entirely.

This was the infection that clouds your thoughts and stalls your feet before taking the next step. This was the virus that sealed your lips though your eyes scream you must be heard. This was the sickness that makes you re-evaluate everything and even question your own worth.

This was fear.

This was fear and I was sinking into its cold grasps. Choking on crashing waves of self-doubt. Burning from the shackles of despair. Suffocating with intents never released. Paralyzed into silence.

You cannot see it if you looked directly at me, but I could feel its solid presence resting in my chest. Every time a dream was anywhere in its vicinity, it would lash out its tendril of doubt and dowse the fragile frame. Years have passed me by because I stalled, completely distracted by “it is not the right time” or “I am just not ready.”

Here’s the thing… I will never be ready, and neither will you. What separates the dreamer from the achiever is the answer to a simple question.

“Are you content to sit back and speculate as someone else achieves what you were destined to do?”

FEAR IS CONTROLLING.

Torment. Crippling. A parasite that offers you paralysis before you have even begun. It coils around your neck and tightens every time you get close to even trying. Fear is a prison. For years, I was held by its restraints.

Recognition is the first step to freedom. Though fear has not been eliminated, being able to identify it is pivotal to breakthrough its barriers. No. It’s not going from a fearful, cautious life to reckless endangerment. It is seeing through the gritty crystals that you truly become liberated from its vice.

Take that step to sift through the sands, even when your heart pulses violently in your ears. Even if your hands are sweating, and shivering. Drive fear out. Stop letting it drive you.

This is me, taking that first step as the first partaker of freedom in the midst of the sifting sands.

Allow me to introduce myself. Hi. My name is Asha Ashley and I am an author.

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