Lev David | Rehumanize yourself.

I really do. With only hours to go before leaving India for Johannesburg, I really want to be wise.

But then I realise: perhaps I was too wise in days gone by. Last night, particularly, when I wrote that letter to a friend. Dammit, I was excessively wise last night. I peaked just a little too early. Now I'm all wisdomed out.

I'll tell you what I said, though. The friend, if she's sensible, won't complain; writers are notorious violators of the confidence of friends.

There's something about being here that demands giving in. Do you scuba? Well, in so many ways, being here reminds me of that moment when you tip yourself backwards over the edge of the boat into the sea. Suddenly, it's all different.

Several paradigms shift clear kilometers in various directions as you step off the plane. Most things are the same, of course. Most things are the same everywhere. Two-legged people, still in the majority, walk about on two legs. Trees grow up. When you fall, it's almost always down. Some things strike you as strange, though.

 

Of course, there's intense beauty everywhere. But often in the same frame, there are things that turn your stomach. Things that anger, rattle, confuse. It's the habit of a stranded, foreign eye. Ultimately, though, this isn't the kind of thing you can click-click-click through the cold machinery of the mind. …I'm on the verge of suggesting that you could feel it… with your heart or something. But let's avoid that mushy bullshit, shall we? You could, however, feel it in the simplest way:

Against your skin. In your hair. Pressed between your tongue and palate.

You tip yourself in. Backwards off the edge of the boat. And the sea closes its mouth around you, wet. Then quickly sucks you in.