I crouch near a puddle, stick in my hand and swirl the muddy water as though I’m drawing, watching the clouds spin and twirl; a dance of liquid and solid. Mingling, floating, carrying, lifting. Falling. Diving. Drowning.

A tiny paper boat sails into my line of vision, and like Pandora, I go to open it– but is it full of curses or blessings? Is the cat alive? Or is it dead? The message is full of intrigue, but I sense it– the predation. I’m a fool to ignore the warning instinct is telling me, but an engaging exchange is a rarity.

So, I dance like the mud in the water. I don’t really answer the questions, but answers are received all the same. The steps are complicated, and quickly realized as a clever conversation becomes invasive. I glance up, down the puddle-filled road– all filled with similar origami creations, some folded more elegantly than others.

A port in a world with which I am unfamiliar.

I try to fold the paper back to it’s original state, but I can’t tell in what order the creases took place, and soon, it’s raining. The paper in my hand bleeds ink, staining, and the once tiny boat is falling apart, dissolving and morphing until it can no longer be read and returns to the place I found it.

The puddle.

Only it’s no longer a puddle, it’s an ocean, and the currents are too strong for me to stay afloat, to swim to the safety of land, but everything has been swallowed by the water.

A mix of liquid and solid, swaying to the pull of the moon. There’s no diving, just the overtaking. The falling as I try to breathe, but there’s no point. I can only drown.

The gods must be outraged, and I am nothing more than prey to them, just as I was the paper boats, not belonging with either. Not built for the eloquent dances they both crave. I’m not strong enough to withstand such forces.

If only I had been a duck. A duck knows when to sink and when to swim and when to fly. But even ducks can drown.

If only I, too, had been made of stronger stuff, and not just paper.