whatever i touch—turns to ice in my clutch—i'm too much

[erika]

I grasp dimly at an idea that is not clear to me—a line on the horizon through clouds—I sketch the barest description of it, circumnavigating any real explanation, and am inevitably hailed as savior for the merest hint of newfound promise. To those on a ship, what greater hope is there than that of land?

And so it is for the mentally ill: wronged, put out to sea, longing & searching. No one can open your eyes to show you the horizon if you are curled up in a ball, sobbing. No one can force you to hear the cries of the eagle-eyed cabin boys as land is sighted. No one can truly describe it to you, or even bring you there—while famously you can lead a horse to water, equally infamous is that you cannot, once there, force said horse to drink.