
Stop. No.
I knew this wasn’t a good idea. But what I knew was not what I wanted.
How did I let this happen?
I let my feet guide me here. I tried to outrun my thoughts and my pain. There was nothing left behind for me. I ran both away and forward. Away from the turbulence. Forward into the forest. Yet, my thoughts still roared louder than the wind, in a desperate search for an escape, for solitude — for anything to calm the tempest.
I let my muscle memory propel me forward down the path I had run a million times before. My soul sensed something new nearby. A remedy. Perhaps. The tall grasses stood at attention like soldiers guarding something important. Diverging from the dirt path, I pushed down the stalks, forcing my entry, until the blades revealed a cutting view, sharpening before me.
The pond greeted me.
I let myself drink in the view as if it were Nature’s finest cocktail. A sparkling, priceless champagne. Intoxicated, I’ve seen this pond before, but today Monet could only dream of painting a scene as beautiful as this. Was the pond always this strikingly ethereal? Or had my perception shifted? Did the pond change? Or did I? The pond resembled a sheet of glass, a horizontal mirror reflecting the darkness. The water appeared far darker. Not blue at all. Not a single ripple. Not a single flaw. The pond oscillated between two realms: peculiarly perfect and perfectly peculiar. The untouched surface captured every carefully drawn pine needle. Spruce trees, white pines, and delicate blades of grass stood as if meticulously painted—each leaf, each branch, a stroke in the crafting of a masterpiece.
I let the pond ensnare me. The pond was not just “pretty.” No, the pond was beautiful. Pretty pleases the eyes, but beauty stirs the soul. Such exquisitely captured beauty enveloped me in a deep sense of comfort, a comfort that had the potential to manifest hope. And, with that, an inexplicable warmth surged within, buzzing and bubbling, permeating body and mind. And, with that, the cold darkness of the world melted away in the heat of flawless precision — if only for a fleeting moment. The pond brought peace within my grasp, making it feel tangible and real, almost convincing me life too could be beautiful again.
I let my thoughts surrender to the allure of the pond. Glazed in layers of obsidian, the pond’s surface gleamed with such smoothness that I imagined skipping across without a single ripple. The serenity refreshed the crisp air, imbued with the scent of fresh pine and mystique. But everything was too… quiet, too seductive — What was the word? The trees stopped whispering, the wind stopped whistling, and the birds stopped warbling. Everything stopped. Silent and still. Something too perfect about the water entranced me.
Was this a pond or an abyss? Or was it merely my imagination, driven by desperation to transmute reality into refuge? Was it a pursuit of limitless solace or an attempt to escape my limited life? I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t stop feeling. I couldn’t stop. Rather, I didn’t want to. The pond held no depths.
I gazed into the abyss for what felt like centuries, lost in reflection — a longing echoing throughout my limbs. Every pristine detail bewitched every one of my bones with a binding force of desire and fascination. I swore I heard a faint whisper, a temptation luring me in: There is something beyond the darkness. There is something beneath the surface. I needed to find out. How could such perfection exist in a world like this? I don’t believe in true perfection. Not anymore. Not like this.
I held onto my breath and onto the potential of perfection. I whispered back: prove me wrong. Please. I peered down at the abyss; at least I could capture and revel in its latent promise. And, with that, I let go. I leaped. All it took was one single movement. With only one moment, the pristine reflection wasn’t the only thing that shattered into a million ripples. And, with that, I had my answer.
Cold.
Cold.
Cold. Dark. Bottomless. Easy to jump. Not easy to swim. Easy to envision. Not easy to endure. What shocked my body was the penetrating cold, but what shocked my mind was the piercing imperfection. I didn’t know it was possible to scream without opening your mouth, until now. The pond crafted an illusion, but her waters imploded. An implosion of cold, dark water. And even colder truths. Her beauty resided solely on the surface. Ponds — no matter how beautiful — are still made of water. The pond lured me in, but her water pulled me down. My arms flailed. My legs failed. My body frail.
Stop. No.
Darkness greeted me. The black blanket of water wrapped around me. Constricting, not comforting. Smothering, not soothing. Every part of me wanted to blame the pond. But no. She did as I requested. Prove me wrong. A curse, not a command.
But what I saw was not what I wanted. At least so I thought. But shouldn’t I have known? Nothing is how it seems beneath the surface. I knew. But I let it all slip through my fingers like water.
How did I let this happen? Rather, why did I let this happen?
I don’t know how to swim.