Running

There’s water. So much water that it stretches on to the purple-red horizon and keeps me from seeing anything beyond it. The constant crash of the waves hurrying to meet the pitch black sand of the beach fills my ears. When I look down, the sand has soaked up the waves and begun to sparkle. There are stars dancing like little specks of light within the miniscule grains. It resembles the sky above on a dark, peaceful night.

There’s a swishing above me, like the back and forth of a cat’s tail against polished hardwood, and I tilt my head up to find the source of the sound. An outline of a shark swims high in the sky, its tail propelling it through the air. Its mouth opens, exposing the glimmering, pointed teeth on its upper jaw. On its sides are more tiny, twinkling spots that resemble oblong patterns of stripes. They span the space from behind its gills all the way down to its tail.

God, I must be dreaming.

I watch the shark a moment longer, fascinated in the way it maneuvers the air. Its gills flair and flatten as though it’s actually breathing. Beady dots of sparkles for eyes seem to be looking everywhere and nowhere all at once. Its nose is lined with jagged scars, and one of its fins has had a chunk bitten from it.

When I tear my attention away from the animal circling overhead and glance around me, there is no one else. I am alone, sandwiched between a floor of stars below and a blanket of darkness above.

What plagues you, child?

Confident. Knowing. I return my sight to the space above. The shark, growing larger, is circling down towards me. Its maw opens and closes, but once it nears me, it simply swims long, wide circles around me. Now that it is closer, I can see that its belly is round and swollen. I watch it--her--as she blinks lazily. Her mouth opens, closes. Gills flair, flatten. Stripes wink and blink at me like thousands of little eyes.

Well?

Her mouth doesn't open when she goes to speak. My mouth opens, closes, and opens once again. I don’t know what she expects me to say, but the words that tumble from my lips are a surprise even to myself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Another blink and then silence. The singular, beady eye stays on me even as she stalks around me in her wide arcs. I am not paralyzed by fear. Rather, I am fascinated by her. In my periphery, I notice there are shiny stars in her stomach, moving and swimming. Eight, nine, ten--there are so many of them. All packed in tight like a tiny can of sardines.

You do not know, or you do not want to know?

Her question confuses me. Want to know? What does that mean? Is there even a difference between the two? I slide back into my silence, and she takes it as a cue to go on.

Your kind are always moving. So worried about what will happen if you are still for a moment. You are not like us. Periods of immobility are not synonymous with death.

Her tail flicks, mouth opens. Closes. Breathing. She's breathing.

If I stop moving, I will die.

Another blink.

We, my pups and I, will die.

That must be why she keeps swimming, keeps herself in those wide circles and keeps moving her mouth. I don't really understand, but I'm unsure if I should be asking for clarification.

But you, little one. Little human. You can sit, sleep, eat. All in stillness. A luxury reserved for those like you. But you hate for it to be so. You cannot do anything in stillness.

Her circles grow shorter, tighter until she's right in front of me. Inches away. The imaginary coolness of her skin is apparent as she swims by me. An eye focuses on me.

You think your life must be spent searching for purpose in everything. When every other thing knows that not everything has purpose. Being fooled into thinking that you must always move does not give you, or any other human, purpose.

Her tone is gentle. Like a mother scolding her child in an attempt for them to understand. I have no words, simply the attention to stand and listen.

Learn to let go of those feelings. Be content in knowing that you are mobile, even if you are still in the present moment.

I wake to the blinking of my computer tower. I've been out for so long that my system has gone to sleep, too. I can't remember what I was working on, can barely even remember if I ate before falling asleep.

I look over and reach for my phone. A double tap reveals that it's nearly one in the morning. The little battery pack in the top right corner warns me that I have four percent left before my phone dies.

Thumbprint to unlock. Clock. Alarm set for six in the morning. Work at seven. Clock out at two in the afternoon to make it to my other job before three. Clock out at ten.

Free time, the two or three hours I have between job two and sleep is spent on writing, on homework, on catching up after feeling perpetually behind.

I don't bother turning my computer in just to turn it off again. Forcing myself from my chair, I grab my phone and trudge to my bedroom.

Skincare forgotten, contacts still in, and still clothed in my clothes from earlier in the day, I plug my charger into my phone. Two percent. I collapse into bed with little more than a huff. I don’t have the energy to pull back the comforter or sheets, so I fall asleep atop all of them.

Ten striped baby sharks swim behind my eyelids as I drift off to sleep again.