You know when you were a kid and you would climb the diving board for the first time in the summer. It had been a long time since you’d been so high in the air, mostly naked, and you’re about to jump free any bond to the earth and hit the water, which is probably too cold. But you’re so excited and people are waiting…. You have to go.
It’s the chance of disaster that makes the blood race.
You could lose your suit. You could get water so far up your nose that your dirty mind is no longer. You could get that saddest of results– the pool enema. You could drown. Or you could simply look like a cartoon and get a nickname that you carry to the grave.
But it never stopped you.
You went anyway. For the promise of relief from the heat. To fly for a second. For the momentary feeling of weightlessness. For the feeling on your skin; first the air and then the water. For the little brain rush of doing something a little dangerous, but with a certified lifeguard on the chair.
So you grow up and view the diving board as a ridiculous way to hurt for three days.
You have other planks to walk.
Deciding if it is worth the risk.
You’ve had the brain wash. You’ve had the enema. You already have the bad name. You’re already naked in midair.
You have to decide if the damage to future relationships is worth it. Because you know you don’t care about the relationship with the person you’d need to speak to.
You have to decide exactly why you want to make the jump at all.
For the bliss of the flight? For relief from the heat? For the weightlessness?
For the washing of living water on a thirsty soul?
I hate this.