The diving board feels rough beneath your callow feet. It reaches out for miles before you, dissolving into the most vibrant sunlight of your life, a crisp and unadulterated spectrum that warms the fronts of your bare calves, as it licks the horizon.
Ignorant of the clean air that pours into your lungs upon every breath, the sky operates as if you were drifting through the vacuum of outer space; you see it through the eyes of the ancient Greek, experiencing every star, every constellation.
A tender breeze shatters the water that surrounds you on every side into an endless sea of mirrors. It shimmers in the night's brightness, urging you down the path. But you are hesitant to walk further along the springboard, for the waters appear almost too innocuous. Is there no other way that I can go?
Immediately you feel an upward tug from a white cotton string tied loosely around your wrist. You didn't notice that before. Floating just above your head is a red balloon. As you watch it, it drifts down only a fraction of an inch, before propelling itself back up to give you another sharp tug. It wants you to follow it.