Page 258 - Drowning Split

[Intro, breath tight, restrained] They do not rush the water. They let it teach you how to hold your breath. [Verse 1] Thirty four hits and the room starts filling, not fast, not loud, just patient, willing. Water climbs like a rule you forgot, touching the chest, then the throat, then the thought. This is where silence learns its weight, no talk messages grafted to panic and fate. You feel it later when you speak too close, a phantom pressure, a hand on the nose. They never say hush, they let the body decide, drowning writes law where words would collide. More water pours, continuity breaks, the scene jumps cuts like the mind when it shakes. An ax appears without cause or care, because trauma never asks if it fits the frame. He swings, the broom splits clean down the spine, death as instruction, sharp and concise. The part is killed so the system can see, what happens when something stops being me. [Hook] Hold your breath, do not scream, this is how they split a dream. Die, then rise, then multiply, call it magic, call it why. If you drown, you learn to stay quiet, if you split, they call it survival science. [Verse 2] The broom comes back wrong, doubled, aligned, copies on copies, a factory mind. Armies march from a single wound, obedience cloned from a moment of doom. They will say it is fine, you are tired, you can rest, let a part of yourself step out and address this. Escape is the bait, dissociation the net, rest becomes distance, distance becomes debt. Now they need to inspect what the trauma produced, so they tell the child, look at what you’ve built. But the one who looks back sees blood on the floor, real pain, real death, not metaphor. That recognition ignites a rage, so they redirect it into a vortexed cage. Do not look back, they carve in the rule, or the spiral will drag you, helpless and pulled. Memory becomes a forbidden room, guarded by fear, by pressure, by doom. [Bridge, circular, tightening] Water in, water out, throw it back, keep the count. Hands move fast, thoughts go slow, this is how they teach you not to know. [Verse 3] Thirty five and a half, the buckets keep flying, brooms dumping water, Mickey replying. A lesson in labor, in endless return, you clean up the flood while the architects learn. The split is complete when the anger dissolves, when the self that remembers no longer resolves. From here on out, when the chest feels tight, the mind will fracture to keep you alive. Not strength, not gift, not adaptive skill, but a reflex installed by drowning and will. Later they will praise the calm on your face, never mention the water still filling the space. [Hook] Hold your breath, do not scream, this is how they split a dream. Die, then rise, then multiply, call it magic, call it why. If you drown, you learn to stay quiet, if you split, they call it survival science. [Outro, low, final] Some people say they forget because they are weak. Others forget because the water never left.