As you will know, I like water. Probably.

August 22nd - This is about procrastinating more than anything.

100% of my very human body might as well be water, and I would be absolutely ecstatic; for only then would so much of me be stolen that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t think of the water as intrusive. Foreign.

Splash.

Lose control, fall back, meet the water, greet the water, swallowed by the water, swallow water. Water in my ears, water under my nose, water inside the purses of my eyes – where the constant burning and roasting and pushing, pushing, pushing, ‘why can this never work’, always went; where the dust and charcoal colored golden skin with pulsing amber and then fade into a dim violet. It leaves a throbbing headache, as if there would have been something lost as I sink deeper into the hollow, dull, horrifying tranquility of the rising pond. (Contrarily enough, my head always gets clearer and lighter the longer I flow along.) Why, because how our world is is under our eyes, below that crevices that kept perfection from perfecting, from that ceiling-light that shields the light from being overwhelming to the eyes on our face, but not that on the tiny biters that fly. Because what it all comes from is a tiny little scarlet dot that sank down all the way to the handle of the wine glass when Dad held it up and talked about the thing he had to talk about wearing the clothes he should wear.

Moving underwater is heavy, with the weight of the water pushing me up and the weight of the land pulling me down. Everything is heavier but nothing actually feels like it holds any pressure. Nothing matters, for all my senses are then obscured and occupied by that wonderful numbness that comes with contacts with so empty an existence. Always serene, the sensation of my ears and eyes shutting down while I stay fully conscious. Makes one feel that connection with something more inside trying to break through thin skins and dense bones to join the world. For once, drowsing your voice with water can't seem less frightening. People are dense enough for this world to note that nothing actually exists until we feel it - and perhaps I'm no different. Air is there and water is there until it had become a fact how they've always been. Water glistens, while the other doesn't, mostly. How unrefined, how oddly strange.

I can swim well, and fast; if I were to ever drown, people should know that it must be deliberate. And that I would be up somewhere else in no time. A cheeky little physical memory of mine will make sure that I would swim even while I was dreaming. That's what going to swimming class at five-thirty when I was five-and-a-third taught me: Never stop swimming, especially absolutely not before your reaching fingers get ahold of the pool's rough stone coping. I can’t ever not swim. Not when I did not stop before, not when I had never stopped before. That, I call inclination, others obstinacy.

I hate water, and at times my body is filled to the brim with it. It slows down my movements and soaks my brain in liquid that disintegrates my tight order of thoughts into a salt-like substance that stings my nerves and makes seawater springs out from my eyes. It’s frustrating, that cycle. Rinse and rinse and rinse until all of my nerves turn into mush.

I really shouldn’t stay drowned for too long. People are waiting for me. I’ve got things - too many things to do. Oh, but I’m terribly tired. Should that be enough of an excuse?

I’ve not done anything big recently, but the weather looks so down that I feel sad looking at it.

Oh water. How I could ever come face to face with you.

Oh.

*