Between Floating

There is this feeling of floating. Floating in air. The air is mostly humid. Flesh wet. Occasionally it gets hot. Occasionally, air turns into water. Liquid. Cold. Warm. Boiling. Gravity is mostly weak. The difference between closed eyes and open eyes is marginal. I talk and yet I am silent. I smile and yet I am lost. I work and yet I am asleep. I might be floating, but a particular direction of flow, there is none. Bubbles surround me. Some burst the moment they are sighted. Some grow in size, and then burst. Sometimes I am floating alone – everything else left glowing white by sun’s glare. At other times, it is dark. In the moon-light, I can see bodies other than mine. Some stink. Some smell of jasmine. They all float. Once in a while, a drifting body gently collides with my own flesh. Liquid turns to solid. Everything freezes. The limbs, the eyes. The entire body. And yet breathes the soul. The soul whispers something sweet. I smile. I chuckle. I am a kid who is floating no more. I am running. I am running with a grin on my face and a spring in my legs. I am running with a glow in my chin and a shining shin. I am running over water and running over air. I run, and then I trot, and then I stride and then I slow down and then I fall and then I drown. I go deep inside till I touch the bottom. And then I feel something. There is this feeling of floating.