I jump three times and then hit the open air.
Falling into that perfect dive off the high board.
I slice the water, straight down to bottom. Execute the flip…
But I don’t come up.
A strong hand is holding me down, pressing on my head.
I fight. I struggle, past denial. I hold my breath. I stay calm. I think.
And then I push, but that hand wants what it wants. I am stuck.
I move past the panic, past the fear, past the primal instinct to simply breathe.
The hand that holds me down is my nemesis…
And, somehow, also my comfort.
I move past the thinking. Until I only feel. I feel the burn in my lungs and the suffocating weight of the water.
The strong will to break surface resurrects. I oblige, and give another struggle.
But that hand… That hand keeps me still… Forcing my compliance.
I close my eyes, knowing I cannot win. I command the world to go dark. I relax. I give in.
But now, I want that hand to push me further down. I want that hand to keep me here until I am nothing.
I sink, sink, sink… Below the bottom…
Underneath everything there is.
In this place, there is no need for oxygen, no need for thought, no need for anything.
Except for that hand. I need that hand. Because that hand has become my world, my anchor, my demise, my Savior.
The sinking, the letting go, the giving over, the death… It is all the same.
It is all peace.
And the very moment that the water steals my life, is the same moment the hand yanks me to the surface.
That hand doesn’t leave my head. That hand has ultimate control. That hand decides my fate. Forever. Plunging me into the depths or lifting me into the clouds.
It is time.
*photo found on Pinterest with no credit given*