Ambulocetus natans

Blue light filters through and bathes the rooms of the house. Different shades of this color reveal and conceal facets of familiar environments.

In these moments, which are so few because this light is so scarce, I leave whatever I'm doing because the abundant and mundane can wait.

I levitate—or rise from the floor. I kick slowly and effortlessly. The natural forces that anchor me to the ground or push me toward the surface of liquids keep me suspended between the ceiling and the floor.

Air enters and transmutes in my lungs at will. My lungs extract all the oxygen they can from this intermediate element. It isn't always in the gaseous phase: it becomes heavier, semi-liquid, causing me pain and forcing me to catch my breath while standing in a corner.

I have to be aware of when the height of the sun, the cloud cover, the weather, and the lighting change; otherwise, the watery light effect will end, and I'll return to my apartment in a bad way.

I had to go to the doctor recently for breathing problems. I hoped that if he found anything, he'd ask me what I'd been doing to make my lungs so bad.

After the tests, he told me my allergies had gotten worse, but nothing more. Now I'm wondering: Should I keep swimming like a whale? Should I give up my strange habit because it's supposedly the cause of my discomfort? Should I tell the doctor or risk being transferred to a psychiatrist?