by Christos Polydorou
When I first heard the expression ‘swimming in one’s subconscious’ I envisioned it too literally. Fortunately raised in Cyprus I had learned to swim. I never went very far, always where my feet were a few feet off the sea bed and not more, and I little lifted my arms, and relied on my kicking legs too much, but I swam.
This swimming in one’s subconscious occurred, anyway. It had been occurring. There were moments in time when I’d let go of the hold I believed I had on my body, and I would tumble, and become transposed to another world, outside of time, containing all of the shades of time, bound in one colourless colour. It is like when you wake up from a long night’s sleep, as if sleep were another country.
Or countries. Underwater, in our dreams, as heavenly bodies and as space creatures, we are ourselves, our body, temporarily a statue, hence of flesh or bone, liquefies, pours out of our bodies, and yet never really leaves, as it travels a million miles away to what is there, a million miles away, cracking, like an egg.