The spring evening settles around us as we keen, sailboats restless in our berths. We are trapped souls, our barren masts scratching skywards, pulsing, almost vibrating against the indignity of our nakedness. Waiting for the disguise of darkness to camouflage our wounds.
We are still alive. We are the clinical trials which never took place, finely aged and toned veterans of the Decade of the Brain, the bravest of the Big Pharma Guinea Pigs. Prozac GenOne Survivors. You find us on discussion board threads like Crazyboards, Out of the Fog, or PsychCentral. Shape-shifting, starboard wingmen, over sensitive to the tide, we have all, most of us, lost count of the months, the years even, we survived as anchor-outs.
The energy healer comes aboard at dawn, a dancing didgeridoo draped over his shoulder. He is framed in yellow. He rubs the Awakening Bell before settling me into Theta consciousness. I float on a narrow bed vibrant with colors, cleansed by tingshas and Tibetan singing chakra bowls.
He strikes this tiger gong. A signal. He waits.
“Where are you?” he asks.
I have traveled so far. His voice so far away. I wince for words. Resistant. So distant.
“Where are you?”
Centuries pass. Cymbals, bells, the didgeridoo accompany me as I travel. He places two cool crystals on the tops of my feet.
And so I tell him.
I am in a huge aquarium. There is no where to hide. Scores of people are looking in and I cannot see out but I knew they are out there and that I am the sole focus of their attention. They are glued to the glass, to the spectacle of observing my terror. They can see all my flaws, my vulnerabilities. I am powerless. Trapped. Until from somewhere deep inside me, from a place I have never touched before, a place I never knew existed, I gather all the energy I never knew I had and burst through the glass.
I am tossed and turned, violently catapulted within the water as it surges into the room, bursting through the walls of the building, barreling through city streets, merging with the ocean. For a moment, I find myself on shore, beached alongside Richard Parker, but before I can even experience awe, before I can even rise on my arm, I am gently sucked back into a sea tunnel.
Breathless, loosing consciousness, I awake, trampolined out, reborn, buoyant in the body of an angel fish. I flick and swish through the water through strobes of brilliant light — passing under the flipper of a Hawksbill turtle, alongside anglers and batfish, a frilled shark, white anemone and sea stars. I twist and slide around rocks wrapped in marina seagrass, reveling as it teases the transparency of my gills.
In a flash around a bend I am swallowed into the sanctity of a school of angelfish. As if I were never alive before. We are magnificent. We dart and weave, dancing through the water, gathering speed, We are our own illumination. We move so fast everything around us a blur. Gaining momentum, we rise as one, a shimmering ribbon reeled upward. We disappear indistinguishable from the stars.