Bottom of the ocean, thirty leagues down a canyon, a spindly glowworm glows in the water. In my descent I chance upon this glowworm – by the way, it’s me, in case you’re wondering, it’s Lui – I chance upon this glowworm and I note how opportune is this encounter, for it has been a lonely trek down, and more to the point, there has been no light anywhere for days. I have seen nothing and heard only odd gurgles and pings from the darkness below.
Solitary and without occupation, my mind, thankfully, has a raft of distractions to keep itself afloat: pictures of people, unfinished dialogues, special girls from the past, but also, the more rudimentary, time.
So it is with some excitement that I stretch out my arm now and catch the glow on my wristwatch to read that it is precisely two o’clock!
In a place like this, it is a treasure of knowledge to know even as little as that: on what side of noon or midnight the journey's made.
In my excitement, I attempt to be my own clock for a while and count down seconds as I descend, but I lose track quickly and get flustered and out of breath for all this concentration.
So I turn again to what is real and physical and simple.
Pressure has increased all along – such is water at depths – and yet my limbs feel almost like air. For some time I have felt close to weightless – cold, but weightless – and with no light anywhere and practically no sound but those gurgles and pings, it is easy to question whether one exists at all.
But I do not question… I continue my descent, my mind clinging to its raft, the glowworm like a lone-star above me.
