memoir

Chlorine Sessions

I didn’t go to the open mic night tonight. I have no new poetry. And I feel too overwhelmed to write at all.

I’m even having trouble thinking of what to put down here, for this blog post that I came here with the intention of writing.

But now I can’t remember what it is I wanted to write.

I’ve been swimming laps again. The pool at the YMCA I joined is one of the nicest I’ve had the pleasure of using. When I slide into the water, the chill is enough to make my skin tingle in anticipation, and cold enough to keep me moving through the water.

The water is clear, but looks blue.

The chlorine balanced just enough to give me that little high, the sense memory, the nostalgia that chemical smell brings back.

I cut through the water, not as fast or as strong as I once was, but feeling more powerful with each stroke, each kick, and taking pleasure in the ache and burn of muscles as I push off the wall one more time– and then another one more time.

I don’t think about what words won’t come, or what tasks are unfinished in these moments. I don’t think about the anxiety that creeps up my throat and tries to choke me. I don’t think about the memories that come unbidden.

I don’t think.

My body moves. My heart beats. My lungs expand.

I swim.

 

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