Swimming Lessons

There was no time.

I remember this vividly.

Time is constructed by desire.

And I had none.

I was almost completely still.

I didn’t know how to swim, only how to float. When I felt I was starting to drown, I splashed awkwardly to keep myself on the surface. However, gradually, by putting a little strength into my arms and legs, I managed to move my body through the water.

I developed my own technique. Before each attempt, I commanded my body to barely touch the water, and it started to become lighter. The head, the heaviest of all limbs, stopped sinking. It connected with the rest of the body. Finally, the miraculous endorphins rewarded me with the feeling of freedom.

All it took was to follow one and only rule: one of my ears should always be below the water surface, so I could hear my breathing and the sound of the alternating movements of my hands and feet. My breath gained volume and shape, and water pushed it along the entire body. The muscles, now relaxed, guided the limbs in a rhythmic choreography.

Over time, I developed my own technique. Before every attempt, I ordered my body to just barely touch the water. Thus, it started to become lighter and lighter. The head—the heaviest of all parts—stopped sinking; it connected with the rest of the body. Finally, the miraculous endorphins rewarded me with a feeling of freedom.

It was always enough to follow one and only rule: one of my ears had to always be below the surface of the water. So that I could hear my breathing and the sound of the alternating movement of my arms and legs. The breath gained volume and shape, and the water gently pushed it along my entire body. The muscles, now relaxed, led the limbs in a rhythmic choreography.
Until the jellyfish appeared. With their long tentacles, almost invisible, with a toxic touch due to a gelatinous substance that causes itching and burning on the skin.
I had to protect what I had achieved until that moment. At the first attempt to face the danger, I ordered my body to pass between the tentacles without touching them, making all kinds of maneuvers. Immediately, the muscles began to move the body spasmodically. The breathing lost its rhythm. The alternating movement of arms and legs was no longer guided by the body but by vision, which failed to detect the transparent danger in time. My body began to “shrink” and ache from the constant restrictions.

The second attempt was not more successful. This time, I ordered my body to swim deep, close to the bottom, at a safe distance from the threatening transparent creatures. But breathing became impossible. The muscles began to paralyze, and the body sank deeper and deeper. The feeling of suffocation brought dizziness and a gradual cessation of all movement.
Trapped in stillness, my mind turned to something I had read recently: “The movement of jellyfish is very weak; they swim very slowly and cannot go against currents. Instead, they move in ways that create currents forcing their prey to reach their tentacles.”

On the third attempt, I tried something different. I brought back the choreography—but at a different rhythm. A rhythm that created strong currents, capable of forming an impenetrable, repellent space around my body.
My breathing returned; my body became light again; the rhythm restored desire—and desire restored time.