I’m on task.
It feels like home.
But home broke me.
He’s here—my comrade.
A different place,
yet in so many ways, the same.
Safer, yes—
but still, the same.
The same people.
Back to “normal.”
I drag my camera gear through the double doors—
The best equipment,
hardly touched in years.
I want it to breathe again.
He needs it for his new role.
Same post, same position—
different leader, different curtain.
They don’t have the gear we once had.
We had everything—
government grants, industry contacts,
a crew, a team,
a post we thrived in.
Switches, multiple cameras—
“Camera 1, switching to Camera 2.”
But here—
no crew.
And they don’t need it.
We never needed it.
It was overkill,
all for the promotion of one.
Still, he needs my camera.
So I walk in,
camera slung over my shoulder,
tripod in hand.
And instantly,
the waves rise.
I’m pulled under,
deep in the middle of an ocean.
I hold my breath.
Fish swirl around me—
praying, pacing the aisles,
voices bubbling in muffled sound.
Leaders, volunteers.
Pre-service prayer.
I choke.
I can’t find air.
The water distorts their faces,
but I know them.
I hear them.
And I remember—
the staff room table,
the marching circles,
“Louder, louder—don’t stop.
Press in, press in…”
The water folds in tight.
I have to escape.
I set the gear by the sound desk—
he’ll find it.
I have to come up for air.
I walk fast, head down,
avoiding eyes,
afraid of being pulled in.
“Stay for the breakthrough,” they’d say.
But no—
I need to breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I find the exit.
Burst into the foyer.
Oxygen floods in.
I almost collapse,
lungs aching,
after holding it all in too long.
A sip of water.
Sun on my face.
I recover quietly.
I’ve never drowned,
but once, at thirteen,
a wave toppled me
and I thought I would die.
It felt like that.
I can’t go back in.
I don’t know if I ever will.
It’s not the prayer.
It’s the system.
The familiarity.
The trauma.
Deep Dive
