For years, I've felt like i was in some weird metaphorical riptide. It always keeps you moving, sometimes violently and quickly, but you're always moving. And after a while, you realize that the scenery is the same, and you're always gasping for air, barely keeping your head above water long enough to grab one more breath. But you do, and you survive that much longer.

    Sometimes, it holds you down so long that you think it's over, the blackness starts to seep in from the edges of your blurry vision, but then, quick as a flash, you pop back up to the surface, and the cycle starts again. I realize that i've been trying to conquer the riptide, to best it, defeat it. I've struggled with it, weakening myself, and making my survival that much more difficult. Finally, i've given into the riptide, become one with it. And it has, as it promised so many years ago, brought me to shore. A place with sand, and light, and air.

    Unfortunately for those I love, this shore is on the coast of Lake Michigan.