Susan King-Smith
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Swimming the Unconscious
Before degrees of separation, we swam the mire, quick-silver dark with pores as porous as water. Schools of fish caught us in collective darting tides, all of a mind, singular, no beyond or outside and we rode the sliding fractals of existence. Opening rice-paper wings in unison, and rising into flight we soared the curdling updrafts and hung like tiny origami marionettes, guiding strings unseen. Migrating south we bounded down a mob of kangaroos, eyes slight for dangers, our sinewy legs like springs. Life was a small f lowered chaos and we duck-dived kaleidoscopic centres.
Sometimes still, synchronicity swims through ether, and you send me an email, and I send you a book, that cross unlikely paths in cyberspace. And they speak the same language, tell the same story, and we laugh across the coincidence that is not coincidence at all. (We shared a primordial womb once.) And at night, still, we dive head-first into waters embryonic and old as time, swimming the unconscious.