It had indeed been a very long time since my body had been wholly immersed in water. Immersed so deep that coming back to the surface took hours. I could hear the other man-cubs jumping in the water, at a distance, from the cliffs that hung dearly on either sides of water. I could hear the wails of the poor souls, again man-cubs, who were being forced off the ledge, and were followed by a huge splash and gurgling sound. All this was happening at quite a distance, but I could hear it all very well. Water augmented my senses somehow.
On the surface, the water was calm, not disturbed by life around it. Tall crags overlooked the water every which way. There were intervals in between the crags but only the Loch Ness had a neck so long so as to peek above the lowland that started where the water ended.
The water was light blue at first and was pierced by shards of sunlight as I descended below. The deep blue that I was now in started to get darker. More like Prussian blue. But somehow I managed to keep myself between the rock-bottom and the surface. You could say I was afloat. Afloat on, rather in the deep blue; on the sea of desires and worries; on clouds pure white which were reflected back by the water. The clouds somehow (I don’t know how) whispered thank you. Thanked the water for showing them their form.
But why was I happy? The water was not reflecting me. But as I waded around, I realized that I was happy because the water was a part of me. Reflecting, it did for other normal, worldly entities. Not for me.
How funny that should be. As a child, I was afraid of deep dark waters like a child is afraid of her father. Maybe I am the daughter of Poseidon. Maybe. I will never know.
