It is you that I call upon when the stony fortress that protects my heart stands tall and unyielding. It is you that softens the edges, crumbling stone by stone, freeing me from layers of inprisonment. You set me free of the cage of stigma, allowing me to express my emotions—allowing me to sing. It is you, my ballad, that gives me song. When I listen, I retreat. I communicate through your rhythm, and you proclaim my sentiments when my words cannot. You cry the tears that I am too reluctant to claim for fear that I may appear fragile.
I wade into you slowly as in a tepid sea at dusk, floating on my back as water caresses my ears like delicate chiming bells. I, alone, can feel your vibrato beneath the surface. You recall the intimate saga of my life. I can close my eyes and see warm light glowing ever so gently through my lids, and He provides me solace. “It will all be okay,” His voice an echoey rumble like the calm of thunder, miles away. My muscles finally release their stronghold of tangled nerves and I am free of worry and predation. Now—now I can cry if I need because I know that I am wrapped in the blanketing waves of your baptismal water—perhaps the anicent collective of the tears of those who have preceded me.
They will embrace me.