In the past in love, I was in conflict. Love fell me into the water. The liquid seeped into my mouth and surged into my nostrils, then engulfed me completely, from my hair to my head to my torso, my legs, and to the tips of my toes. My hair must be floating around me like seaweed. Water clouded my vision, and silenced the world, and I had no doubt that the water approached my brain through ear canals — I could no longer think like I used to. Engulfed thus, cut off from the silver luminescence of moonlight or probably the golden warmth of morning light, I was adrift in the boundless limbo. I could not discern whether it was the vast ocean, a meandering river, or merely my own bathtub that held me captive. I must have known it, but “memory” relinquished.
The pain was tangible, as it should be—pain also born of isolation. I ached for the sight of human faces unobscured by water, for the sound of voices praising my beauty, and for the ability to engage with the world in its rational rhythms. My lips, silenced by water, could no longer partake in the prayers of God, and could not see if it was prayer time. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t remember and I couldn’t know what time it was and… my God might have frowned upon my silence. Would I be punished?
Every attempt to draw breath like a human only permitted the water to claim more of me, until I became indistinguishable from it, until it consumed all of me, inside and out. I longed for the days when I was human, bathed in light.
Eventually, there grew more water. Devoid of air, stripped of light, there was nothing but the endless, boundless embrace of water. I was in suspension. Where I was finally able to fly — suspending in the air, like God. I lost memories of battles and names in the only reality of suspension.
I owed gratitude to the water, my trouble-making lover, for it obliterated me.
So in the present in love, I am unconscious. I stop to struggle; I stop to feel; I stop to breathe. Names, identities, the passage of time, and the need for light… all relinquish their hold on me, and so does the need for a world. Water and I create a new world: the first human being is an aquatic being, opening its eyes beneath the water's surface. It couldn’t see because of water, so that it sheds its problematic sense — eyes, ears, skin, then reverting to an egg. No interaction with the external, its cells no longer respire, its telomeres stop their destruction. It won’t kill itself. It might be dead, but it’s immortal.
The sensation of water is now eluding me. I had an anxious longing for the days when I could feel its cool flow slipping through my fingers, tangible. Words like “clarity”, “emerald”, and “coldness” all lose their tangible referentiality; now and then, I sense my consciousness pulsing like the waters, the iceberg hidden under my consciousness melting into water. Thus, I think I can still feel the concept of these words, but it’s just they are no longer tangible — referentiality and signification, for me, becomes to be felt, not to be experienced. I pulse like water, finally merging with my lover. I had its chilling ness and mystery. My lover is turning me into ▖▜▝.
In the future in love, I will be in individuation. I an projbaly alwayz individual, I thunk. Because ut is muself thet drove me into water, unto myszelf.▗ ▘ ▙ ▚ ▛ ▜. ▗ ▘ ▙ ▚ ▛ ▜, ▟. I, ▟. ▟ ▙ ▚. ▗ ▘ ▖▜▝. ▙ ▚ ▛..
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