Swimming

What if I were to not just sit on the edge of the art,

but jump in.

head first

my body following suit.

awash in a realization that comes no sooner than the moment I make contact.

breaking through the murky waters.

only to find that when I break, and immerse

it is chaotically pristine.

it shouldn’t make sense, but it does.

When does the fear set in; the questions?

the edge was my only boundary to this murky unknown,

but now I am here.

now I see no line, no wall, and no semblance of an end.

Shame.

when does it unfold?

not the pending maelstrom,

collapsing infinitely in on my own consequence

rapid, constricting.

but that which bursts forth, informing creation within every

count, turn, leap, and hold.

its core foretelling destruction.

Except there is nothing but creation, and destruction.

so where do I fall?

where do I rest my weary body, swimming in what feels like everything,

so content in its inevitability of…

nothing.