float

I open my eyelids. I shut them. There is no difference in this vacuum of infinite nothingness. I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since I shut the heavy air suctioned doors. Five, ten, thirty minutes? My body has adjusted to its immediate environment in this shallow float tank saturated with epsom salt. The slippery water has enclosed my body, with the exception of headphones that drone out all external sound.

In this sensory deprived space, I can still feel three things: my pulse, my breath, and my thoughts.

A few droplets of the water trickle into my eyes. Squeezing them tighter only gives way to more stinging. My hands attempt to expel the water from my face, brushing a bitter taste into the corners of my mouth.

So now, let’s have some fun. I swirl my arms and torso as a sea anemone might sway its tentacles in water, creating gentle waves. In the absence of sound, visuals, and olfactory stimulus, there is still touch. And the touch is so invitingly granular. I feel each raised goose bump on my chest, and thread my fingers through the voluminous silky beads of hair behind my head. Have I been neglecting this untapped bank of sensation all along? The phrase “I feel” is often used in context to describe an emotion or thought. Less often is it used to describe a physical, tangible reaction from touch. Most of our every day encounters revolve around visual or auditory information absorption. What sensation our hands do encounter is often the glowing screens of our smartphones, or smooth surface of other electronic devices.

As I exit my float session, I walk outside into the sunlight baking onto the concrete cement. Multi-specked grey concrete is suddenly strikingly interesting. I linger on to savor the last few minutes of my HD world before my brain retreats into the familiar.