I try to make words. Patterns on the page when in my head there are letters tumbling into the spaces where meaning is an empty street. An empty city street.
I go to Walden as I think if I swim. If I put arm in water breath air in pull through blow air out bubbles. Bubbles. If I put bubbles into my brain. Bubbles that are oxygen my brain will wake up out of this fog that it seems to have sunken into for days. No. For weeks now.
A fog I do not know why. Or how to find my way out.
I swim. The rhythm of the breath in blow bubbles breathe out is good. It focuses my ears on sound drone. Voice hum low and long. And my eyes, my goggles are fog (but not the fog of my brain) I cannot make out things that I know are around me, the blue water tiles, the fringe of green, the above me sky. I get used to this and I think what it must be like not to see.
I watch the gold green emerald slants of sunset beams under water blinding flashes of silver point light in fog goggles over water. Breathe in blow out keeps me focus. Rhythm. It keeps letters forming words tumbling onto page. Makes sense of the world. Rhythm. I see patterns in water. I hear patterns in breath. Rhythm keeps letters playing word games.
I swim. I swim in deep water. Water that could swallow me up with one breath and I could disappear into and under and if. If I did the rhythm would stop. Stop.
Fear comes and I know I must swim. I know if I let fear come in the water I am in I am under and…
If fear comes it is the end of letters tumbling into words.
I swim and I know why I come here. I come because I feel my Self. When the words get swallowed up on the page and the fear gets swallowed up in water I see a part of me that has to struggle to let go…..
And not to let go.