A voice comes to me when I submerge my entire being underwater to be engulfed by the stinging cold. The voice of a young boy. I can feel his presence and he’s been with me for as long as I can remember. I can feel him close beside me, just behind my ear. His voice is muffled underwater yet I can hear him clearly. It’s like he was whispering yet his voice was so loud and clear. He’s become a part of me when I sink into the embrace of water. He tells me a story; a story of a young boy. I can only hear his voice when I am underwater. Once I emerge from the water, the voice disappears and the story gets cut. When I try to sink once again, he starts all over from the beginning. He doesn’t give out the story bit by bit, but it seems as though all the information just pours into my brain.
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I do not see him, I cannot see him, I have not seen him, yet I feel as if I know his figure. A small, frail boy. I can feel his presence underwater. I feel comfortable and warm when I feel him. Perhaps that is why I started feeling attached to water. Perhaps my attachment to water is my attachment to him. Perhaps sinking underwater is my way of getting to him since it’s his way of getting to me. Perhaps he is a fragment of a broken memory. Is it my memory? Whoever he is, I’m sure he was a special friend to me. Or perhaps…
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I try to end my string of thoughts every time I guess who this strange boy is. I could not just ask him since he never replies. Besides, it’s not like I can ask him that easily. I do not know how to reach him. Talking underwater is not an option since I am human and I cannot possibly do that. Trying to reach him through my thoughts, I’ve tried but he does not reply.
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Who is he? I ask myself that every time. He tells me his unfamiliar life story. Who is he? Was he a broken connection from my past? Perhaps he was also one of those whom I tried to save yet are out of my reach.
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Who is he?
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I hear the same wind-like whisper as I sink into the water in my bathtub. I could hear him tell the same story as yesterday, starting all over again.
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There once was a boy who lived with her mother. His mother was a town beauty, a goddess, one might even say. But in his eyes, she was someone who shared her warmth with him, someone who’d take care of him. A little less powerful than a goddess but deemed much higher; she was a mother. Some people even say that the son inherited the mother’s features. Though they were poor, his mother spent all to provide for him. She would starve to feed him. She would skip sleep to guard him as he slept. She’d stay out all night trying to do all sorts of odd jobs. Though his mother was a beauty, they would do honest work, one that would leave them guiltless before the throne of judgement. One day, the time came when the child has to go back to school. He went back to a perfectly ironed set of school uniforms laid out on his bed. The child, of course, was overjoyed. He quickly went to his mother who was outside, hanging the laundry. Together they celebrated another chapter of the boy’s life.
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The voice started to slowly fade away
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