The Thing In the Pool

I drown you in wine, the goddamn squatter who lives in me. Flow, Lethe, dark and deep! But even through a drunken dreamless sleep, like a nude drowned man in see-through water, the memory is seen… That very sunny day on the river, tender girlish hands doing my back with sunscreen, lots of plans for future, reckless air, easy money, the coolness of the depth… All of a sudden a spasm! a cramp! a zigzag lightning pain! that lit up something? someone? I would fain forget but the remembrance, mixed with blood in my veins, with coldest sweat in my nightmares, stayed in for good… The rescue team did well: I’m still alive but, tell me, why the hell I often feel like going downstairs to river beach, undressing, diving deeper under the water and taking a breath? The habitant inside of me shrugs: “Death is quite familiar to every sleeper and swimmer. Death is, so to speak, a river which flows from the future to the past, a metaphor of time. Don’t look aghast at this phenomenon but you should quiver in fear just thinking of the one you saw down there, at the bottom of your soul. Who could this be? Don’t look through the keyhole of the imaginary but real door between realities”… Or I just think he says it, and the truth is I did sink long time ago.