Cool water. Waves lapping on the shore and the sea in my hair. I stay in the shallows, comfort fringed with panic. An old fear that something huge will come up from the deep and take me down. Recurring dreams of swimming out and out and out, of drifting into the desolate nowhere. The fear of being alone. Without anchor.
But it's nothing. Fear is a product of my mind, and fear itself is very rarely dangerous.
I step out into the water; lift my feet; float. I am driftwood, and I'll go where you take me.
I can still taste salt on my skin.
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...then take a shower, you filthy girl.
ReplyDeleteIt washes out.
'Fraid of being without anchor, you?
It's very difficult to hold you down. Literally speaking.
Although drowning could be a turn on... All gasping for breath, kicking and such.
Just a thought.