I Can Swim
- January 21st, 2010
- By Douglas Allen
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It’s very easy to hide where it’s comfortable. And there, absorbing the familiar, you will lose yourself. What wonderful medicine it is. It can make you creative in ways you never thought possible. You can now easily excuse inaction. You transform yourself into a thesaurus for the cowardly. Your imagination and memory can perform impressive gymnastics. Your perception is contorted into that of a victim, shy one villain. It takes courage to use this one life to follow your heart. Some of us could have used a dress rehearsal. I’ll do it later, when I have time. I’m not in the right place, financially. Once I get all this paperwork off my desk. Once my social and love lives are in order. It’s my resolution for the New Year. Soon enough, the milestones turn into gibberish. I’ll do it when I get my new piece of software. I can’t live without that. Once I’ve paid the vet bill. When I finish with this DVD box set. I’ll get to it. It’ll be my resolution next year. Eventually it will become “I had a dream once.” And questioned, I cringe at the thought of the dance that will follow. Clever (judgment-proof) misdirection as it may be to demonize someone or something, the aces have long since slipped out of your sleeve. There’s nothing to show and no one to blame. You’re left to your own reminiscence, embellishing and volunteering the tale to anyone who will listen. I had a bucket full of aces once. Those were the days. Expect much sympathy.
Those were not the days. Those days are now, and they are not them. It’s not that it doesn’t feel great to sit in an armchair and watch the world through a window, conjuring up card tricks. The trouble is, it feels great. Your hair is dry, your face and clothes are clean, your skin is smooth, your body is warm. You don’t ache. There are no scars, bumps, bruises, blemishes to speak of. In fact you’re devoid of texture, as if you came from somewhere without weather. Like the shrink wrap is still on and by now you’re much too terrified to remove it. This chair is so comfy.
Why continue in the second person? I imagine I’m not the only one, but there are days where I notice myself trying to shrink. Like a dark corner where nobody can see or hear me is paradise. Fuck that. When my natural instincts try to tell me to avoid the high dive. When my body is reminding me that even if I had the courage to jump, I’ll still land in the deep end. When my breathing gets shallow at the thought of climbing, jumping, landing, breaking, drowning. Of meeting a demise far less pitiful than the one described above, but every bit as horrifying. Hopefully then, paralyzed by fear, I’ll remember — I can swim.










