Sometimes, feeling the way I do when the mist rolls in off the lake, I walk to the water's edge. There, out of sight of God and Man, I step from my clothes and walk until my head falls through the tension of the surface. Like elastic, it closes around me with a pop.
I stay underwater for as long as I dare and then surge, pushing the gossamer sheen aside to burst forth and breathe. It seems that the fog is always a little thinner, the world a little more colorful, the water a little more chilled after a swim I survive.
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