Beware the Tides of March

My almanac says high tide will be on March 15. The ground is already oversaturated by the unprecedented February rains, so the water table has very little give left in it to resist unusual tides.

The moon is waxing to get past the Ides of March, its phases racing to consummate the Worm Moon. That's lunacy. The calendar hurtles toward the vernal equinox by the light of the silvery moon, in a singalong of collapse that follows the bouncing ball.

Beware the Tides of March!

Caesar crossed the Rubicon, but now the Rubicon comes for me. Water, the universal solvent, is relentless; nothing can resist it. Not even an iron will. Not even Zoloft.

When waters rise, so rises Archimedes. This is when it gets personal:

If the buoyant force is greater than an object's weight, the object rises to the surface and floats. If the buoyant force is less than the object's weight, the object sinks.

Will I rise or sink?

Some things are insurmountable. Some things can't be fixed. For some things, there is no prescription.

Ask your doctor if Sublime® is right for you. Don't take Sublime® if you have thoughts of suicide, homicide, infanticide, fratricide, insecticide, or thoughts at all.

I batten down hatches, awaiting the familiar deluge. The waters rise; Archimedes laughs. I've been through this before, but it always blindsides. My only defense — prepare my bamboo tube to snorkel, again, past my mental crisis.

But I must take into account the bamboo's length, which is measured in lifelines. Too short and I'll be sucking in rising water and drown; too long, and too much dead space will build up rebreathed toxic air until my little red needle is pointing to E.

How deeply should I breathe? Fill my lungs with water or with rebreathed air? Can anyone throw me a line?

The rising tide of depression comes on as you watch it, feel it, and sometimes succumb to it. We all carry an almanac, and mine has a certain page earmarked. Even as I watch the waters rise, fear Archimedes, take a Sublime® or the whatever right-for-me du jour, I never know which torrent will finally swamp me.

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Word count (excluding note): 365

Submitted for Friday, March 15, 2024

2024: A Story-a-Day for the whole year. This one is #75.