I float in the lake. Stillness all around. There is no tide, no motion, just stillness. The warm water cups my body and I am numb. I float for years like this through life. No passion, no excitement, just numbness. I want a ripple to appear in the lake. I want a boat to race by, a fish to take a taste, a bird to swoop down; something, anything to break up the stillness, but nothing happens. And even if something would occur, I won’t notice it, in my quiet cocoon on the lake. My mind is aching for change, for life, for something other than the numbness I currently feel. But nothing external changes and I continue to float in the lake.
And then, one day, I stop floating. I upright my body, kick my legs and break the stillness on the surface of the water. Because in that moment I realize that in order to break the stillness, I need to do something. External movements won’t wake me from my sleep; my sleep is self-induced and only I can break it.
I swim for the shoreline.