35 strokes is all it takes to hit the concrete wall and roll over. two feet firmly planted, push off and begin all over again. a small splash of chorinated water seeps in telling me it’s almost tuesday. cannot help but to nibble at the thought of a perfect workout. in the motion of movement there is an epic passion let loose secreting tiny drops of liquid knowledge one has in exploring the tiny caves of rumination. the drain of desire, the intrusion of attachment, there’s none here only the constancy of connection, water evolution. kicking in a concentrated rhythmic power pattern…i can hear the voice of my coach from 20 years ago…two arms react in a smooth arc of motion…now i’m getting somewhere. the unbearable lightness of being tells me so.