I knew that I was sinking. Bubbles of lost breaths rose like quicksilver creatures alive before my blurred eyes. The dappled surface of the water, pale green and yellow, receded far above me; and farther. There was no fear in the sifting, sinking, settling--only resignation to my end. I had stopped fighting to stay afloat, thinking, for a moment, to let go, to remember calm acceptance of being. And I was going down, down.
Then I awoke. It was very early, not long after lurching to fitful sleep and I had been dreaming, and it was like waking.
I struggle to stay afloat, swim against relentless current, dog-paddle. Because I must. I am without buoyancy, am made heavier by each unfinished task, stay just where the breaths can come and eyes glimpse the surface, barely.
Then, I relent, give in to the delicious, tempting thought that, just for an hour, I'll drift. And I do.
And I feel the sinking, the going under, then the frenzied clawing to get back only to where I had been. Never up on dry land. Never closer to firm and constant footing. Dreams are metaphors. These are my dreams.