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Hard hooks.

08.03.17 – Baited

Sometimes the fish forgot not to breathe when he leapt up in the air. There’d be a bit of choking once he’d flopped back down beneath the water, a couple moments to recover and a tense period of seeing if he’d get that swim back. After, the jokes would only just begin. I imagine there were plenty of bullies in the school and this would make a guppy an easy target. One slip of the gill and all the rest of that meandering trip between shore and current was up for comedic grabs. Sound traveled better there too, the laughs must have been echoes bounding through a great chorus hall. Maybe even a fish could blush.

I suppose some didn’t remember the play for long. I’ve heard the golden ones can only keep an eight in their head for as many seconds. It’s not great but there’s worse on land, and drowning comes just as fast and flashy as for those flying amnesiacs. Direction is kept elsewhere, a tug and tingle against a scale or maybe an undercurrent felt from a solitary source that can be used like a compass. The stars may twinkle off the surface and curls, but my poor fishy friends can’t catch the light so far under the blue. They’re finding other ways to wish and forgetting them often.

There were some constants, moving being the most prominent. I trapped my dreamer in glass to keep him from a long wander, and around and around he swam looking for a corner un-prodded. There’s an assumption made that he’s got enough space to not be reminded of its true size, like it might feel as an ocean as long as he doesn’t swim directly from end to end. As foolish as he’s been, tossing himself to carpet at times, he still hasn’t made the connection. Though I’m certain he sees me, a life out of place, but what world he invents for that I’m never to know; I just hope it’s happier than the old tides.