When deciduous foliage meets cerulean blue

Swimming, the majority of the time you are inside your own head. There is no phones, no wifi, no talking, scattered thoughts, purely gestural and meditative.

Other sensory became hyper(hydro)sensitive, you could hear from afar. Your own breathing, heartbeat, you can feel fellow swimmers’ movement. You could also hear the sound of waves and splashes. Almost blinding, every movement is ever so tactile, being wrapped in the deep, deep blue. Is it really blue? I can't tell, my eyes aren't opened. I can't see, it's not essential to see.

Swimming has its own solidarity that nothing can replace - London's fallen fall is the toughest, the weather isn't cold enough to have the overheated pool water, and often, you swim in the rain. The sky is always overcast, it's difficult to wake up at dawn because the season changes and the body doesn't adapt well.

Autumn leaves washed off to the pool's white tile shove.
Terracotta orange imbued with cerulean blue.

What if your life paused at the age of 27?

That night, he was engulfed by this very psychotic wave, he told me about the sensation and imagery of returning back to the womb and being reborn. When one is diving the water pressure and the stillness and quietness night, triggered, disquiet. The moment frozen, he dived deep.

Today is only the beginning of the night.