The first step from the shore is the most difficult. If you break the surface then you’ll not be able to rise back up and stroll thereupon until you walk away for a while, dry off and wait for the water to forget what happened. The key, in my experience, is to imagine the fullness of the sea, the total volume of all that water, the wholeness of the mass of so much liquid. It’s far larger than you, billions and billions of tons. You could never hope to displace it. You’re nothing. You’re insignificant. The sea hasn’t got time to notice you. Try to be subtle, subliminal even. The wind passes over the surface, and you’re smaller by far. Think upward thoughts, dry thoughts. Imagine the impossibility of your foot punching through. How could you break the surface? Who do you think you are? And then there you are, one step out onto the water. The next are easier and easier still. After the first, it just comes naturally. If you make a habit of it, perambulate too far out from the shore, you’ll find yourself hopelessly buoyant, never again able to dive in and swim down below in the cool, dim depths. The water will have forgotten you, learned to ignore you, decided that you are irrelevant. This might be more than you want, so be careful. Walk a little while, and then make yourself plunge through. Force the sea to remember you. Dive down and claim your place among the sinkers and swimmers of the world. Plummet feet first into the depths, your eyes open and cast upward at the quickly fading light of the sun disappearing far above as the dark sea welcomes you down.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re well. I do.
Later. Love.
