Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Shark Attack

You're swimming, in the perfect water of everyday life. The water is clear and you can see straight to the bottom. Little fish swim around your ankles, their bright colors bursting out of the corners of your eyes. You find an especially beautiful fish and follow it deeper and deeper. But the water gets darker and darker. And you see big movements down there, but you can't make out what they are. You decide to go back, but your fear makes it hard to swim. You crunch your legs into yourself so they don't trail down, closer to the big, dark things. You frantically paddle for the clear waters, forgetting all knowledge of any other more efficient stroke. You look behind you, a pointed fin zig zags in your direction. You can't do anything about it. It's so close. You curl up in a ball so it doesn't hurt as much. But it still hurts.
It doesn't matter if it's an event that occurs, or something some one says, if it hurts, it really does feel like a shark attack. If you survive, you still have scars. You can't go over it with nice things. It's there, like a bad drawing in the sketchbook. Stuck there, forever.

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