Et sous la surface, je disparais.

Deep down, I knew it would be a difficult experience. Swimming outside my comforting Ladies Pond in London, not coming back to the salty taste of the Channel, leaving this community and my family behind, to find another one, bare naked, speaking estranged idioms.

Two months would have been long enough to make those Berliner lakes home far away from home, I thought. I contemplate the failure of this ideal. It is never as you expect, never.

But I swear I tried my best. I followed the tacit and explicit rules of the Aquatic game, embraced the Bodies of Water like I am used to, undressed and dressed following the visible Others.

Torn between wanting to be alone and feeling lonely, the only constant ruling my swimming. My drowning.

I was saved by the factual writing I had to deliver. Recording those moments, keeping a neutral and objective sense of observation, thinking about the informative aspect of those Watery experiences. By the time I had to turn inward, I had written traces of those.

 

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