The Book of Weston

The warm waves invite me in. The tide tugs

at my back, pulling me away from the world,

into depths unknown. They say

I could drown but I never have.

I always swim back.

The world isn’t so easy to lose.

It asserts itself, ever expanding.

I sink back into the surf, surrender,

slip beneath the structure of logic.

There is a hint of fear about

what might lurk beneath me,

then muffled relief and silence.

The deeper I go, the warmer it gets.

I breath this water like amniotic fluid.

Of course I do; it’s mine.

Some people travel the world,

gather experiences.

I seem to be built for

expeditions of the soul.

What territory will I map

down here? What living things

will I unearth inside myself?

They bubble up, slowly at first,

shy and not quite trusting that

I’m ready to understand them.

They’re right to be suspicious.

At first, I question them, superimposing

my reality onto theirs. I hope

they will lead me to a bottom,

a foundation and a fortress,

something ancient I can rest upon.

But I fear there is no ocean floor.

I’ve tried to find it. I hope once I return

to the surface, I can share with others

how to navigate into their depths.

I’d like to think all our oceans

meet somewhere via some

deep connected tunnel.

What I really want to learn

is how to bring the ocean with me

everywhere, encapsulating me

like a liquid cocoon.

I’ll find a way.

This foundation needs focus.