Careful not to confuse tragedy with depth, I’ve gone wading in cool waters. Ears ready for a phrase-turning half-truth. My brain so used to deconstruction, I harrow anything near hope. Even when the hope is so hopeless, it’s disillusioning, withering in its own light. I have a new favorite phrase: violently optimistic. That sharp sound in one’s voice pointing out the bright side. It goes beyond sharp to piercing. I stop here; my story is full of holes.
I went swimming today. Little Katie refused to jump in and then when the nerve struck she tried to take me with her. It wasn’t the water that made me shake her off, but the side of pool and the angle of my head. We’re a lot alike, Little Katie and I. We’ve got faulty senses of conscience and caution. Alarming, really, the fun we let slip, the trip-ups we embrace.
I’m trying to decide how I feel about swimming. Whether the weightlessness and smoothness of the water across the skin are really worth the chlorine residue and the unpleasant chill of cool air on wet skin. Whether the bent light waves are worth the streaks of red in my eyes.
I am a Cancer, but is water really my sign?