Even then though, he had yet to fulfill his wish, it was hard for him to take the time.
Nothing could stop that longing though, he felt it in all of his muscles, the need to float. If he closed his eyes, and imagined himself floating; it was his shoulders that longed for it the most. No more pressure for him to be on the ground. Gravity would pull at him a little less. And everything would be okay.
Two years. He never went to the pool. Or the ocean. He dreamed for it each day. Never did it.
Tells a lot about a man, who could easily give himself the release that he desires, and chooses not to. Eventually you run out of excuses for why you're not allowing yourself the nice thing you desire. It quickly becomes clear; that you hate yourself.
He hated himself.
He didn't need to hate himself, then again, so rarely do the ones that should hate themselves; hate themselves. Too often do those, that deserve no scrutiny, scrutinize themselves. To a standard that no one could hope to achieve.
Sometimes, he would run a bath when got home. He would let the water run, and he would put his hand in to the hot water, and close his eyes, imagine that his hand was floating. He would then step slowly into the tub. Hoping, against hope really, that he would float in the tub. Each time the hard ceramic of his tub, would be a disappointment that would bring him to tears.
So he hated himself. He wouldn't ever stop. He was on a one track mission to cause himself grief. Not by imagining a wife, or love of any type. Not a great vacation. Not a foot message. His one track mission would be to force himself to yearn, to be in physical and emotional pain from a yearning. To float.
Sometimes people are like that.