Floating

After a nice warm shower, I open up the door in the wall that looks like it might open into an abattoir refrigerator, and step down into the warm pastel glow of the isolation tank. Colored lights simulating stars twinkle gently in the ceiling above as I lay back in the body-temperature water and begin to float, weightless, until I reach up, hit the switch, and plunge into darkness.

About an hour later, I'm sitting in the lobby sipping tea, calm and empty, like I've been scrubbed inside, with a delicate humming sound where all my busy, noisy thoughts used to be.

A woman, her face pale and stricken, comes out of the back rooms where the tanks are, and approaches the appointment desk at the front, but when she's asked why she didn't finish her session, all she can say is, in a shaky voice, "It just isn't for me." 

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One year ago today: First Impressions

Two years ago today: Looks at Books

Three years ago today: The Homestead Inside
Four years ago today: Don't Look Now, But I Think We're Being Followed