water as life

Sometimes I like to picture myself living out a novel. In this novel, I'm not a protagonist or an antagonist. I just am. And at the end of the book, I have some sort of spiritual awakening, which doesn't necessarily bring all the parts of the book together for closure; but, instead, opens the reader up to an infinite number of possibilities -- another beginning rather than an end.

Maybe it would go something like this:

I immediately felt the warmth of the water rushing passed me. There was no turning back now, I thought. This is my end. Or maybe not? Maybe there isn't supposed to be any sort of "end"? I battled the currents for sometime until they, too, seemed to disappear. I saw my wife and children, together in the living room, waiting for me to come home. I called out for them, but your image caught my voice before it could even leave my mouth. You were there -- and that's it. Suddenly, it occurred to me that in that moment the possibilities were endless.

I'd always believed that the realm of possibilities vastly increases when you close your mind, not letting your thoughts slow you down. Sure, you're a little more reckless, and things don't always go to plan, but it's a better way to live each and very moment. But there I was, living out my very theories right up until the last moment, questioning what I had believed in my whole life.

Finally, you came before me, pushing my thoughts aside, again. But, in that moment, when it mattered the most, even you couldn't save me. I took a deep breath, allowing the water to enter my lungs and remembered the dreams I used to have about water. In those dreams I'd be on top of the water, or at the very least, the water would only come up to my knees. And it was a light blue, sometimes even clear, letting me see right through. When I looked down then, with the water flowing through me, however, all I could see was black. The whole world was black.

And your image disappeared, and I left this world as effortlessly as I came in. Or so I thought. Because you were there again, telling me about the sea, and I wanted so badly to respond. But I couldn't.

***

Come to think of it, when I write fiction, I'm very comfortable with writing beginnings and ends. The middle is always difficult (and the most important part) which, coincidentally, is what I'm struggling with right now in my life. I'm comfortable with starting over (moving to NY, etc.) or ending a particular situation (quitting school or a job, etc.). But I'm very uncomfortable with staying the course and actually tackling problems, instead of running from them. Looking at it in that sense, my writing symbolizes or represents myself much more than I've ever realized before.