How To Be a Fish

You are still. You are empty of thought. Your body is entranced with the flow. Controlled. Your contours that once flapped with the frenzy of life becoming are smooth. Calm. You feel alert but not overly alive. You ease into and over your self. You hold onto the ideas that slip away in the rush of others but do not think them. Commune. You translate the company of others into bountiful solitude. You bend and sway and will not over-analyse this relationship. Connected.

I see you from below. I do not mock or taunt you. Although that would be entirely plausible. You could well be my target in the eye of the storm-pools that your repetition creates. I choose to allow you to feel free in the planned chaos of your predictability. I base this decision on instinct, having no free will to speak of. I cannot speak. For this you are thankful as it is the silence that you relish. I too am grateful for this as I would hate to break the spell cast by you on your surroundings. Would wonder if it would plunge you into my darkness that you are not equipped to deal with. You do not realise in your unthinking that it is me who is mindful. I radiate with your need to expunge the world but I do not possess the means to think about it. I wonder if you ever contemplate that.