In the wake of the evening the light hits the water, and the darkness is falling slowly. She has come here seeking some sort of purpose, a purpose she is sure not to get. Her round body is sinking in the water, and the moon’s reflection ripples as she puts her hands out in front of her, already gasping for air. She had hoped this would be the thing that changed everything, hoped to the tune of her life savings in return for a transformation. There were people everywhere, meditations and yogis and life coaches. It was all bullshit, beautiful people telling her how to exist in a world that had never been cruel to them, never shut them out. Her pyjama pants float against her legs and she becomes heavier and lighter as her feet navigate the algae-covered rocks at the bottom. Her hands grasp out in front of her, moving in awkward circles like the swimmers she’s seen on television, like the graceful birds who float on the water. She is unmoved by it, by the sinking feeling, by the water, by the cold. Even underneath all the clothes she can feel her skin prickling, her breathe becoming tighter. Her legs kick slowly, flailing outward and downward and around in circles, the water tastes like ash and bitterness. They asked later in the emergency room what would possess her to go into the lake late at night alone. For this she would have no answers, curdled by the thought of waking for another day.
A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.