The day is going very well. I'm just now taking a break after a five hour writing stint. Better still, I actually like how it's coming out. This is the best sort of writing experience: I started with a simple paragraph in mind, and once I got the first sentence right it just flowed. I have no idea where this is going. I had an outline drawn up, but it went out the window two hours ago. I'm taking a bit of a break to let some ideas cook, but I'll be going right back into it shortly after I finish this post.

This is a freedom I've long wanted and never allowed myself to believe was truly possible.

There is something incredibly liberating about tasting ones desires, about taking a fantasy and experiencing it in the flesh. Few things stir the imagination as well as discovering that those long envisioned yearnings, transformations, and possibilities are even better than they were when we played them through our minds during those late longing nights. As much as living desire brings joy, it gives the self permission to experience joy, and once that floodgate is open there is nothing that can hold back the rushing waters.

Some seek to swim, gasping for the dry air they are familiar with. Some clamber to the shore, hauling themselves from the drink with a desperate, scrambling grasp. Some drown, their limbs exhausted from struggling against the current that sweeps them away.

But some...
Some start to wonder, as the flood starts to rise to their necks, if they can learn to breath water. They open their eyes under the shimmering blue and find it lovely, lovely enough to try. Resigned, nervous but anticipating, they open their mouths and draw a deep breath unlike any they've taken in their lives.

We never hear from the ones who try to breathe as the neriads do, living our lives knowing bright sun and dry air instead of warm waters and the glittering depths. We do not hear their stories from their own lips. Perhaps they drown, confirming all we're told of our limitations and mortality, their hubris taking their life down to a riverbed as cold as a masoleum.

But perhaps, just perhaps...
Perhaps they find the waters too warm, the sights too marvelous, to leave them long enough to tell us of what they've found. Perhaps they try, and find the languages of land have no words to describe it. Perhaps we've already heard this story, but cannot recognize it.

Perhaps we know it for what it is, long for it, thirst for it every day of our lives, but fear the drowning.