Dreams
One.
You jump (or are pushed, how would you know the difference?) and hit the water. You plunge so deep you're not sure which way is up, which way is back home. You scream because there's nothing else to do. You scream and start to forget, and as the bubbles float away you think, 'if I catch them, will I remember again?' So you follow them. And in a way you were right; you surface.
Two.
It's still. So frighteningly still you feel this is not any ocean you've swum in before. No sea could ever be this flat, but there's salt in your mouth. The sky is bright, but you cannot tell if it is late in the day or early in the morning. No sun, no moon; only the reflection of light on the still, still water.
Three.
You tread water. Legs kicking out beneath you, melting into the Prussian depths. Looking down is dizzying. There is more water beneath you than sky above you. You would welcome a fish, ray, a whale, a shark; anything to break up the hall of mirrors beneath you. If you sank, you would sink forever. You would be purified. You would never rot.
Four.
You're tired. Your limbs are heavy and your mouth is leaden with salt. You keep swimming, (what other choice do you have?)
You keep swimming. Legs, arms, legs, arms. You know you're forgetting something; but you are in a place of no memory, no time. Are you forgetting something? Maybe this is it, maybe this is all you are. If you keep swimming you might find yourself, but probably not.
Five.
You're sinking. The pale blue melts into the dark ink of the abyssopelagic. You see pale flecks of marine snow, an indication of life you will never see. You close your eyes. You try to remember.