the unabridged reader

I fell into the ocean. Once, twice, three times.

Once.
I welcomed the water. I sunk deeper and deeper until I was compact, pressed from all sides. After a while, I noticed that no matter how deep, there was that light. The light that blindsided me; that which sent me down, down, down.

Down the seabed, it was liberating; it was vast. There were no questions. Neither were there answers. There were no fences. There were no bars. There was, however, that light that peeks. It reached the seabed, a very thin line. A ray of sunlight.

The light that I followed up, up, up. Until my fingers touched and broke the surface tension. But it turned out, I was mistaken. That light was not the sun. It was artificial; a lighthouse, and it was going around, around, around. The swim up gave me cramps. There was no buoy in sight. So again I sank, sank, sank.

Twice.
I tried to float. I screamed for help. After all, my lungs used to be able to carry long, stable notes. My voice used to prevail over hours of continued use. But the me of that moment was drained. Drained of all the rainbows and butterflies and flowers that my 5-year-old self worked hard to supply me with. It was not enough. I also realized that there were songs that were easier sung from above the surface. And the me who was under, the me who has sunk, could not even utter one single “Ah”.

And then…

Three times.
No part of me could even hit the surface. The lack of thought, the lack of heart, the lack of strength- trapped me. I embraced the stillness. I greeted the plateau. I stayed on the seabed- so vast, so empty. It was so empty, I could build a whole new world from scratch. So build, I did. Build, build, build. I also learned. Of old things, and new things. It is slow. It is calm.

___

A fixed beginning can not be changed, 
But an open ending can give a tiny bit of hope.