Crossing over August 72’. (I’m not really here) It’s 50 years since I’ve passed. Passed into the depths of Georgian Bay. Ah Georgian Bay in August. August of 1972’. 1972 and about to turn 8. 8 with that awful, morn full song in my head. ~(Love me, love me, love’) ~(Curse you Frank Mills)~ Head to the high spot, Spot where you spring out. Out and down towards the water... The Water was warm! Warm at first. First 15 feet. 15 feet is where it’s 15 degrees. 15 degrees and dropping. Dropping Cobalt blue to oil green black... BLACK.... I open my eyes while descending from consciousness. Consciousness as i once perceived it. It presented me the easiest peace I’d ever known in my short life. Life on the surface was Faux outwardly joy. Joy?, or an exoskeletal shield? Shield me please? Confirm to me nothing is ever worth hiding... Hiding is something I hereditarily became good at...(shame on me) ‘At the instance of penetrating water on high velocity, ball and roll to stay close to the surface. The Surface however,... I choose to pierce rigid Rigld with intent to descend. Descend to my limit. Limit of lungs and brain pressure, until I surfaced, smiling all the while. While waves inherently reject and regurgitate me ashore. (15 minutes later) Ashore I am accountable. Accountable for my own translation of what I perceive. Perceive what you will, for some reason I’m here still. Still I question these past 50 years. Years of me still hanging about, in a wave of interference. Interference on an ethereal broadcast from August 1972’. (there is no peace in rest) ‘I’m not really here ‘. (there is no peace in rest) ‘I’m not really here ‘. (there is no peace in rest)
