Quicksand Standing in the face of defeat, a man’s willpower often prevails as his sturdiest armor. The darkness crept into my life slowly but surely, infecting all aspects of my life with its heavy pull. Days once filled with energy and color steadily tumbled into an unrecognizable heap of lethargic grey. I donned a smiling mask each morning and set out to face the day, feigning happiness every step of the way. Depression had become my most powerful adversary.
Consumed by my hatred, I trudged through the quicksand of my emotions looking for escape but instead sinking lower. I struggled at first, but like quicksand, this proved counterproductive. The quicksand merely lapped at my ankles when the first doubts began. Once a reflective surface, the mirror tuned into a sneering mockery of me that I could not bear to tear my eyes from. Now teasing my knees, the quicksand had pulled me lower. I tossed, thrased, and tore for escape, and still the quicksand pulled me lower. Hastened by the weights of hatred and guilt, the quicksand now kissed my chest. Once non-existent, then fleeting, and now regular, thoughts of worldly exit filled my mind. Alienated by my friends, misunderstood by my family, and hated by myself, mere thoughts escalated into plans. Now caressing my chin, the quicksand was preparing to swallow me whole. The end coming near, I accepted my fate but not without one final struggle. In an all too rare moment of rational thought, I cried for help. Using every last bodily reserve, my arm broke free of the swirling muck and with it, my hand grasping for aid. I found the hand of my mother. Although not strong enough to pull me free of my quicksand, she held me strongly enough to keep me from sinking any lower. As my toes hovered above the rock bottom, my
