"It will never be this day again" she thought, as she opened the shutters. Glorious.
Such a fleet river will carry us all downstream. I thought I might watch from the bank for a while. So I sat down among the pebbles and did so. Ten years passed. If not longer. Unchanged, I dipped a toe in the water. It is cold and muddy. Quick fish nip at your flesh. My arms float but I am not buoyant. It requires some effort.There was a boat and I got in. Now we're moving swiftly, now we're not. Then, before present, every which way looks lost. I sit in back to power, I sit up front to steer. The navigator, himself not with us in our boat but on a bridge just ahead reminds me of someone I've seen. In my sleep? He knows the waters but not the way. Shiva dreams reality while Brahma sings existence. This is the swimming portion. I'm looking for fins I can't find. Do you use fins in a stream like this? I have questions. There is no response. I am weighted. I am wading. It's not so deep as I thought but if I don't use my strength to cut through the current I won't get to the end in time. I wished for companions. I yearned for an audience. I'm alone but not frightened. I guess because it's busy not lonely. And there's so much to look at, which I've seen. Doing now, doing this. Deep breath.
She considered calling this piece "Of Consciousness" but thought better of it. The baby cries so she stops typing and goes upstairs.
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