Float Under

by Ania Alberski

They say that in the twin cities there is no longer any way of knowing who is alive and who is dead.

— Calvino, Invisible Cities

Every morning, you rediscover yourself. 

You have no recollection of your previous selves; they have all been lost in the depths of the swimming pool. The best part is that you never have to watch them sink—they just disappear. You prefer it this way, not having to confront any overbearing feelings of guilt. 

After watching you loosen your feet from a pair of suffocating sneakers, the pool awaits you patiently. The water ripples around your toes, begging you to plunge in. So, you do. Your linen blouse quickly soaks, clings tightly to your skin, loses its true color. The chlorine pinches your eyes, but you force them open anyway. You scan the stone tiles, desperately propelling yourself toward the metal grate in the shallow end. Just enough oxygen is left in your lungs to make the final push toward the wall—you shove your finger in between the piping and press hard on the blinking white light. All you want is to escape. To enter something other than where you are now. The realm is near.

It doesn’t take long for your spine to begin crunching, coiling up like a flimsy roll of film tape. Your eyes see nothing but black as your body is spiraled forward, and you become transparent, like the blouse that shed itself off your shoulders in the portal. You tumble around in fluorescent beams of light, drown in a cascade of galactic dust, and somehow it all feels comfortable. Perhaps this is your own version of the Adoration.

This is the hidden realm. Maria is happy to see you once again. The pool welcomes you into this space, not underwater but in a new atmosphere altogether, one that makes your lips bleed upon impact, just as ears are made to pop on mountaintops—but it feels pleasant somehow, like burning a shredded palm leaf or discarding a rotten memory. You are dry now, perfectly refreshed and unattached to the body that guided you through that transportive grate. You are unrecognizable now, no longer adorned with your unique freckles and scars. They have been erased to make way for a blank canvas—the city will paint you anew.

Thin, dreary gray clouds part ways in the middle of the sky, making room for you to descend, to drop in and find your place again amongst the crystal skyscrapers and yellow sand oasis. You must learn to walk again, to land your feet flat on Maria’s surface. This city is just as mesmerizing now as it was when you first fell into its enthralling trap. You wonder how these structures still stand strong, even though they are tall enough to kiss lightning bolts and wobble like marmalade in the slightest desert wind. The ground beneath you hopes to resurrect you, you and your broken bones and cracked porcelain skin. Maria heals you, and you don’t even feel the pain of daggers and betrayal as they pierce through your flesh. Thorns, born of sweet roses, prick your ankles and the bottoms of your heels, prodding you to bounce between green glass cathedrals and spurting fountains. 

It is nice to float. To wander. To fly with the black doves. It is frightening, too. 

You are surrounded by other ghost-like figures. You can see right through one another, and yet, none of you know one another, none of you acknowledge one another—you simply exist. It is impossible to meet anyone here, anyway, because no one is living in the same city. You share the space and you float between the same tall trees, but you will never see this landscape through the same pair of eyes. It is clear, though, what you all have come here for. You all want redemption. You beg and cry to Maria for reconciliation. It will be granted upon you, only in privacy. You wouldn’t ask the pope about someone else’s grief, would you?

Everything happens here without consequence. The warm and gritty sand will absorb all your faults and failures, and then forgive you without a second thought. You can run a mile without breaking a sweat. You can yell without generating an echo. You can shoot a bullet without making anyone bleed. Cry without tears, dance with no rhythm, smile with no teeth, fight with no armor. Nothing is real here. No one can feel here, emotions or senses—everything is off the table. Your fingertips are numb, your nose is blocked with snot, your heart has stopped throbbing, and your mind doesn’t wander any longer. You are only ever focused on moving forward, on trudging through the streets made of shadows. You want to discover something within the darkness, but you are not almighty, and you can be easily fooled. None of the windows are made of real glass, just woven blankets of mist and the smoke of burnt pine. This prevents you, or them, from becoming disillusioned, from believing in a reality which will never manifest itself. None of this will last long anyway—these moments are best when they are fleeting.

When the white light begins flashing, you know it is time for ascent. This is a frequent ritual for the discarding of the souls who have spent more than twelve hours in the realm. They will not be harmed, only recycled like Sunday newspapers. Used bodies will sink with all the rest, but your soul will be reborn, and you will return to Maria, whenever the sun hides behind the horizon once more. You watch the other ghosts as they float upward—their eyes are drawn toward the sky, but their hands are gripping desperately onto plumes of smoke and specks of dust, anything that might pull them back down to the forgiving sand. They do not stand a chance. By the time you realize it, your legs are dangling, too.

Ania Alberski is a middle school English teacher and Master's candidate at the University of Pennsylvania GSE. Her work has been featured in The Daily Pennsylvanian, Penn Political Review, Her Campus, and Unearthed. When lesson planning isn't consuming her existence, Ania enjoys painting, watching real estate TV, and drinking English breakfast tea—at any hour of the day. She writes to make sense of what surrounds her, and to reach for something more.