That untitled murmur

You will reach a point where there is no one swimming out in front of you. You will reach a point where there is no wake to follow. No lane. No guides.

You will reach a point where you stop paddling forward and tread water and lift off your goggles and squint around you and it’s nothing.

Or at least that’s what others will call it: nothing.

But you know it’s not nothing. The swells of writhing blue black waves aren’t nothing. Because they’ve been the pulling and pushing you this whole time. You’ve felt it. Weightless and feathered. Iron wrought and solid. The lapping moon whisper. Talking to your bones.

You need to stay positive. When others smudge your charcoal dream drawing, don’t dismay.

Push harder.

You will tell yourselves stories. Which are the haunted whispers of jealous ghosts. Dead souls bound to not trying.

Do you understand what I am saying?

Plunge the toilet. Let the dog out to pee. Avoid refined processed grains. Check all the boxes. But the place is beyond buoys and boxes. You know that.

This place may be sweat. Or it may be a stack of library books. Or it may be silent dark scrutiny of consciousness.

Or it may be waves.

These flying seasonal flutters of heart.