The deep end always hurts. Perhaps its some malicious feature of the nature of the deep. The deep that presently presents to me itself in a tilted bowl of dal, which has a cold shallow end and a hot (palette-charring hot) deep end. The deep that I have been tackling, otherwise - aside from my 'deep'ression over getting good at getting nowhere - has been the swimming hole - yes, real water - in the school-next-door, where I only go so deep as my perimeters of survival define, since I suck at swimming. And it is only this art that eludes me for so long - I have been chasing it since my school pool days, yet sinking each time, as if I had been tied rocks on my feet.
And the deep end of love also does...hurt, to mention while we are here. Always does. Goes there is like an invitation to something beyond giant squids at the bottom of the ocean. It is worse to find yourself stuck there, for you know that the oxygen in your tank is running out. Every day, I see a little of that oxygen escaping my reservoir of lungs, yet me stuck in a dense suspension, struggling. Some eyes never close on you, even starting to keep a voyeuristic presence, and you find yourself being watched, being as base to offend someone that is the seer. Then reach two arms for your body, and maintain an intimacy for a long time, and then it all ends well.
And the deep end of love also does...hurt, to mention while we are here. Always does. Goes there is like an invitation to something beyond giant squids at the bottom of the ocean. It is worse to find yourself stuck there, for you know that the oxygen in your tank is running out. Every day, I see a little of that oxygen escaping my reservoir of lungs, yet me stuck in a dense suspension, struggling. Some eyes never close on you, even starting to keep a voyeuristic presence, and you find yourself being watched, being as base to offend someone that is the seer. Then reach two arms for your body, and maintain an intimacy for a long time, and then it all ends well.
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