In the morning I lie in bed, slowing coming awake, so slowly that I feel conscious and unconscious simultaneously. I see a flat, silver disk – my consciousness – shining at the bottom of deep, black water. My unconscious is the black water. I am the black water. My consciousness stirs – silvery bubbles glitter up from the edges – and then it starts to rise up, rising faster and spreading wider with every second. When it reaches me it pulls me in. I become my consciousness, and I look back into the black water as it streams past, longing to know the murky shapes, the shadows, the tantalizing currents now beyond my grasp. I struggle to slow my ascent, to try to go back, but I can’t.
On my back now, looking up, the surface seems to rush me like an oncoming train. I gasp as I break into… into what? On the surface I spread so wide, so thin I’m like an oil slick. I can still feel the blackness at my back, roiling against me. I open my eyes, and it’s daylight.