FLOW

Somewhere near but contained within smooth rock walls a river rushes. I can hear the steady pace of white noise and it’s impossible to know if the sound of her is below me, above me, or on either side. It’s impossible to pinpoint the direction of flow, the echo inside the chamber walls spinning a kaleidoscope of sound, with no beginning, no end and no direction except all of them at once. I want to follow the river’s lead, let her carry me effortlessly to a space more open and filled with light but she is everywhere and nowhere and together we are both lost and found.

I keep my eyes closed, although the world looks the same with them open. The air is so thick each falling drop forms a tiny breeze, a millimeter of cool movement compared to the rest. I worry if I breathe too deeply I’ll drown, if I exhale too strongly I’ll start a tornado, if I acknowledge this impassible darkness, I’ll disappear.

The air itself is almost as wet as I imagine the river, drips dropping into pools send shock waves of echoes. How many years, centuries, eons of drips formed in mid-air before getting too heavy and letting go into a pool then drifting slowly in blind quiet towards a river to form such a rushing stream as I hear now? I cannot tell from one to the other which is an actual drip and which is the echo. Then a drip upon my nose and I feel sad that she will never know the sound of her own echo because I stood in her way.

Somewhere near me the river rushes. The drip slides down my cheek joining a tear and I know, in the end, all water finds the flow, no matter what.