The Deep

You're at the swimming pool. You look at the water, and you think about time. When you dive into the water, you dive back into the ages. Out of the present down through the channels and rivers of the Earth's grand clock.

You pass the Romans in the time of Caesar Augustus, the Chinese in the era of Confucius, past the pyramids, the spread of humankind across the Bering strait to the Americas. You continue to dive. You descend past the Tigris and Euphrates, the fertile crescent, through the bottom of the cradle of civilization.

Past mammoths, saber-toothed beasts, neanderthals, fire, stone tools, to the dawn of earliest humankind.

Your face collides with concrete. You look about in a haze, your nose broken, and realize you aren't at the bottom of the pool. Not at the nine feet, or six feet, or even three. Not even at the threshold where the stairs meet the water. You've tripped and fallen short, slamming into the water-stained pavement before the water's edge. You do not even truly comprehend what it is to dive.

Are you ready to see The Deep?

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