Sometimes I like to think that the tide beneath me will finally rise up and cover my knees. Feeling the mud from the banks slip between my toes and know that I am only a torso away from drowning. In the spring sunlight I have to wonder if the glimmer that I see really shines past my eyes. Or if I am not submerged already, watching the reflection instead.

I still have water in my ear from last nights diving.

The splash, the breath of air, plunge down.

Shimmer, turn over, breathe out. Bubble. Bubble.

Arch up, breathe again.

The cool water rushing past my skin, makes me wonder how thin the layer that separates is. My skin, this body of water, cells between, a minor division. Yet I float, letting the air in my lungs bring me up, letting go and sinking down. Whoosh.

I can feel my muscles against the resistance of the water, see the glimmer of my skin from the pool lights. I think about my breath more. The difference between water and air. I notice the restrictions of the tile floor and walls, and know that my space, my playground is only 25 metres long.

But something inside me always needs to return to the water, and while on land, I keep my water beside me in a bottle. I like to know that I can pour it down my throat at any time, and feel like I am breathing in a different breath. That my 25 metres has been reduced to 2 litres. That's all that I carry.

And in my water bottle world, I can find all that is sacred.

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