[identity profile] thedogofsputnik.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] modnar_art
Winding around me are a series of chains. The water looks and feels entirely gelatinous. Time feels as if it's congealing around me with the surroundings and seconds are elapsing themselves into what seems like hours of final introspection. Is this the time to recant, I ask myself? It occurs to me that within a minute or so, my consciousness will subside and I will be dead. The ocean water will fill my lungs with their weight, the weight of nearly entire world crushing from outside and in. To which god do I beg forgiveness for a lifetime of insolence? To which hell shall I be condemned to?

The mess of seaweed seems to spring to life, tentacles and garlands of outstretched hands, green hairs of the sea standing on end. The cold is enough to fill the senses with the shock of imminent death. In slow-motion, the sand at the bottom sprays into a crystalline mist, almost obscuring the waving green coils. The unassuming eyes of fish regard this new intrusion into their domain balefully. My body, out of instinct, begins to thrash and flail in a last, vain attempt to ensure my survival. The salt of the sea is burning my eyes to the point that my vision is starting to fail. The gag around my mouth seems to do little to stop the water from effusing its way inside me. The weight of it fills my insides like a terrible weight and softly, the gravity of the sea lays me down in the bed it's so hastily prepared for me. Bottom-dwelling creatures all scatter and make way, as if I were a guest of some kind. Fiddler crabs raise their claw in a mock-salute for my arrival. Prawn dance their meager fanfares like so much improvised confetti and streamer. Unnamed sea creatures appear to usher me to restful sleep, assuring me with their spinning parts and amorphous appendages that I should worry not. It's like falling asleep, the gradual loss of sight, the body's feeble attempt to expel the liquid invading my systems.

The last thoughts I have are still over the relevance of repentance. Is this it, I contemplate, in those vague split-seconds, expanding themselves as if that somehow, in this final hour, the thin light of redemption still wavers in a hidden corner offering its absolution. Absolution through desperation. The final submission to the gods and natures and omnipotent entities asserting their dominance in this almost abstract version of a lion demanding its tribunes from the lionesses after the hunt for merely being the lion, the central figure.

Perhaps, that if this is the final test, that I am failing. What else could be expected from this flawed framework succumbing so effortlessly? Do I fall asleep and wake up elsewhere for uttering, thinking the one word? Again, I think to myself of that notion of absolution through this final moment of desperation and realize its futility, as futile as my last attempts to shake from the bindings and rise to the surface and think that there is safety if only because I can breathe again.

Slithering around my legs is the soft, slimy glissando of what could be an eel or a sea serpent. The coils spin around in a seemingly sensual dance as I feel the ends of its tail examine my make-up. My resting place is probably its home and it must be wondering what this foreign object might be that has fallen from nowhere and disturbed it. This will be my final sensation. First sight, then hearing, then taste and smell and finally touch. I will feel the last dance of the vibrations of this pulsating creature reverberating the water around me with its confused motions, baffled by my presence and analyzing my potential. Perhaps it may feed off of me or assimilate me into its home as a kind of exotic furniture.

I can feel the reverberations pulsing from its body as if they were a gentle breeze on the shore, the soft caressing that assure me in a strange, motherly way. Somehow, that soft touch is comforting, even as the last thoughts of my mortality ebb away into their graves, buried in a brain now shutting down and ceasing the rest of its functions. The sensation dances around me, hushing the rest of my lingering thoughts away as a mother would to a child waking in the night from a terror. The shadows and phantoms of thought and sensation and memory all begin to dissipate in that almost loving, protective touch. Everything will be all right, it assures me, despite all of this and everything else around me, things will continue on and there is no more need to worry. All of that is lifted and sure enough, I find myself drifting off, as if to sleep once again.
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