Drown
No surface has depth. Some allow our eyes to penetrate their hard or permeable skins in order to see inside — but they are all interfaces between two worlds; with conceptual vectors pointing in opposite directions. Where one reflects a truth, another absorbs a lie; a skin keeps out the world and in the sap.
“He falls in love with a thing that has no substance; and he thinks that to be a body which is but a shadow.”1
Our fights and flights are consanguine — cardinal warp and weft. As we buoy, these twins grow listless. As we drown they thrash — but without predator or path they enjoy our bodies by consuming them. Our last moments are drowsy mirrors smashed by hyperarousal; what might be sharp reflections dull as blood is stolen from our minds to let muscles breathe.
The medium slows Echo’s refrain, and her symmetric ‘farewell’ impregnates a barren puddle. Whatever sound is born is suffocated. Good love, found, aspirates in the imagination of our search for the perfect. We can see it in still water, but as we reach in the wave blinds us.