swim swim swim

Flood

It flooded him suddenly. An immense, pressurised wave of emotion, story, love, tragedy, joke, opinion, nudge to believe. He forgot what he wished to do and fell into the wave. It was vast, infinitely deep, and infinitely emotional.

There was something that was strange about it, however. He didn't feel like he enjoyed it, even though he did. He didn't feel like he wanted to stay underwater, even though he did. He wanted to swim back up, but with each stroke the flood of emotion pulled him back in, ever deeper, feeding him more desire to stay in every time...

Just an instant ago he felt fine. Just an instant ago he knew what he wished to do. And just an instant later he was wallowing in what he could only describe as an emotional mess.

Another instant later he opens his eyes, not remembering when he closed them. He felt sand under his feet, he heard the sea in front of him and he saw... Nothing. "It's all a blur..." he said visibly confused. All of what he had felt just a moment ago was still inside, in one big mess of a ball. It was disgusting, like he had been forcefully fed a rug with which the floors were mopped.

"Why do I want to go back? I feel like I can no longer see. Is it a dream?"

He waited, then turned around. He was in the kitchen of his apartment. The kettle was beginning to boil, small bursts of steam coming out of it. The sun was starting to set, warm streaks of light coming onto his off-white, tiled walls. His eyes rushed to the clock, body making a sudden twitch, like he was stressed for a second in the expectation of his finding. Last time he remembered was around 6pm. It was now 6:43.

"How do 40 minutes vanish in an instant, how is the kettle boiling if I don't remember setting it on the stove? Shit, I'm going to be late" he thought, almost screaming in his mind while turning the stove off and running towards the exit, storming off in confusion to meet a friend.

Lights

He couldn't sleep anymore. City lights were too bright, city sounds were too loud and the pace of it all was way out of his league. The only thing that was to his liking was the job.

Ever since that time he drowned a lot. First it was rare, every couple of weeks. Now it was a daily occurence. Sometimes it happened twice a day. It was torture. But in the moments like this... He wished to drown and fall asleep through the conglomeration of random feelings.

The moonlight didn't really hit his apartment windows. It was overshadowed by the street lamps, ad postings, and lighting on the wall of a nearby skyscraper. Medication doesn't help, reading doesn't help, people's advice do not help either. "I just wish for the wave to come now".

He felt disappointed in himself, wishing for that which he did not understand even all these months later. Repetitiveness of his life now requested this rag which he despised.

The chair

Another appointment, this time not with a friend, nor work-related. He sat down in a deep, weirdly comforting leather chair. Shelves around him still contained the same books, the table in front of him still had the same photo frame, small clock, notebooks and pens. And behind the table sat the same doctor.

He didn't remember what they talked about, only of his childhood.

"Try to recall moments of your childhood which you liked, which brought you joy..."

As he stood there, waiting for his homemade pizza in the oven, in anticipation of his friends coming over, he tried to recall. What was good? Was there any good? Not much for sure. The small fights of his world, the small fights of others that he participated in. He remembered no more than that. It was always fights for something. Except this one thing...

"You got any plans for winter, Craig?" asked George. "Oh damn, this pizza smells nice bro!"

"Thanks," he said. "No, no plans yet, why are you asking?"

"Bro..." said Alex after biting off half a slice at once, barely finding it possible to speak at all. Though this chewing couldn't stop him. "You said that you liked skiing when you were young, rig..." he swallowed the pizza "khm... right?"

"Yeah"

"Why don't we go this season. Neither me nor George have ever skied and you make it sound like a perfect trip for the three of us every time you talk about it. Let's go this winter and tear up some slopes." He took another giant bite, finishing off the slice.

"How the fuck do you eat like this? You got a black hole in your mouth or something?" Asked George. Craig wondered the same thing.

"Yo, when my bro cooks this good I think I might need to marry him and not my girl. I don't know how you don't eat like this."

"You don't eat, you fucking vacuum these slices up, leave some food for us too!"

Craig calmed them down: "Nah I got another two coming out of the oven in 20 minutes, don't worry you idiots".

"Craig?"

"Yes?"

"I might be buying a ring for you soon."

"Fuck off!"

A volley of laughter made him feel at ease. He didn't wish for the wave right now. It felt inappropriate to even think about it.

"So?" Alex apparently didn't know that he could speak without chewing. "You wanna ski this season?"

"Sure, let's go."

"You'll have to teach us though."

"No problem, you two will take it up easily I think."

"You know what else I can..."

"Shut the fuck up Alex!" George threw an olive at him. "Where are we going then?"

"I know a good place, lemme show you..."

Remembrance

Ski season started two weeks later. The flight was long, tedious, and had two layovers. By the time they got to the hotel his two companions immediately went to bed. He wasn't so eager to do so. For the first time in a long while his memories were flooding in, reminding him of what good he could recall. Barely anything of his childhood was still stored in his brain, but this view was always there.

He recalled the first time he was here, probably twice as short, looking at the same slopes that go so high up you can't see some of them. Mountains that stand in front of him are monumental, being there for millions of years, almost never changing. They are so tranquil it sometimes feels that they wish to convey a certain truth to one who wishes to hear it, to one who accepts the calm, who respects the monumentality, who respects the slope.

He recalled when his dad taught him to stand on the skis for the first time, when he still could only go slowly, awkwardly putting the noses of the skis together, hopelessly wishing that he could be as good as his father one day. He recalled when his dad, on the second or the third year of their skiing, put him on a black slope and as he struggled to get down without falling went fast to the first time in his life, starting to understand that going fast is safer than going slow...

He recalled that when he turned 17 his dad allowed him to drink Mulled wine if he didn't tell mom. At that time he also finally became almost as fast as his dad, which brought him great joy and destroyed the mystery of an unachievable standard that was his father.

Snow stopped, clouds vanished, drifting away, further and further, slowly opening up the sky to his view. The light of the crescent moon shines bright in the mountains, illuminating his face. Illuminating the confusion, even as he realises his childhood, even in the moment of no yearning for a flood, he stands there. Motionless physically, faster than light in his soul.

Thin

They took a long break, 2 weeks off work and study to have as much time as they can squeeze out of their forcefully busy lives to be here, as close to the stars as they can be when nothing separates them from their grasp. No metal enclosure holding them back from breathing the thin air mountains provide them with, reluctantly accepting new visitors, who do not yet fully respect the danger that comes packaged with absolute freedom.

For a week, he trained them, taught them the basics. They were all lifelong athletes, thus taking up the training quickly. By the end of the week both George and Alex could keep their skis straight to the immense surprise of Craig. His struggle to keep them straight lasted for several seasons, before he finally gained to speed to keep up with with the flow of his surroundings. Yet here his friends were, fearlessly taking over others on the slope. Maybe he should have told them more about these mountains. Although, he wasn't told either... He was shown and forced to bear witness to his own mistakes.

They could now all go on longer, steeper slopes, gain more speed, bringing the essence of skiing ever closer.

He now decided that he can leave them behind, knowing that they will meet by the lift and repeat until dusk sets in and the space lift closes, forcing them closer to the nightly motionless. The last day had to be his only.

Now he stood atop the mountain, still, anticipating the moment. Sun was starting to change its colour, sky was becoming pink. And when his soul started screaming at the opportunity to slow down he went. Carving from one side of the wide edge of the mountain to another he gained speed. His skis, just like the mountain air brings him closest to the stars, bring him closest to earth, a thin layer of expensive carbon separating his body from the skin of a body thousands of times more magnificent than his own. With the speed he gained communication. His soul was slowing down as he sped up.

He hunkered down. It was time yet again. Wind whirred by, grains of snow raised into the air by people who went down this slope before him struck him, his knees were aching, but how could he listen to them. They were his vessel to life, if he gave up now he would crash. They had to respect the magnificent as much as their master does. And so they kept aching, but still held strong. The punishment of every impact they absorb and of every direction change they hold together will come later, they have to hold it off. Such was their master's command.

Suddenly the aching went away.

"..."

He knows he is there. His soul is now completely still. His body reached the limit of the speed he can gain now while keeping his legs planted on the ground. The mountain is no more. The knees will hold him on it's slope, the skis will allow the magnificent to tell him their truth once again. Quietness filled him suddenly. No thought was needed, nothing extra could fill his mind or heart. He felt the stillness flow into him through the skis that were his horse and through the knees that were his saddle. They followed command of their king, who now acted only according to his instinct. He had to listen.

This flow started to dwindle as soon he saw the bottom of the mountain. He was forced to slow down, as per the instinct he chose to guide him. He didn't wish for more. He didn't wish for another conquering. When the flow finally stopped he slid down the hill, his soul slowly regaining it's speed. There they were, his forever favourite idiots, stopping another one of their fights to notice him.

Death and cherries

The trip came and went. The trio returned each to their homes. He was in the city again, wondering how his soul never regained it's overpowering speed. The height of the skyscrapers dawned on him again, as if they were really scraping the roof of this world, its pieces falling on him every time he ventured outside.

Now, sitting at a bar, drinking a negroni, he looked outside.

"Rain..."

He turned his head. Another was sitting there, one seat from him in this empty bar. He didn't notice him entering or ordering the same drink as him.

"Yeah... It's been like this for a week now."

"How do you feel about it?" said the stranger, only partly addressing Craig, partly just blurting the sentence into the world. It seemed to not be a question at all. He kept going before getting an answer, a pick with a cherry on it whirling around in his fingers.

"I enjoy the rain. It forces this city to slow down. People are together more, joining each other truly in their spaces, not just meeting friends outside. It forces us to create warmth to keep one another comfortable in this weather. All as it should be. It slows everything down to a constant speed, the speed at which we are not overwhelmed. It doesn't need to be faster at all."

The dark red berry disappeared into the speakers mouth, and he himself disappeared from the space.

He was in the kitchen of his apartment. The kettle was beginning to boil, small bursts of steam coming out of it. The sun was starting to set, warm streaks of light coming through the rare opening in the clouds, his off-white, tiled walls are illuminated by a lamp on the table. He poured himself tea and opened a book his late grandfather gave him.

The mountains told the truth after all.