Leaping off from 10 meters high above the ground,
flying through the mid-air for 3 seconds straight,
only to expect the unescapable final intervention by gravity, the gravity of earth, the gravity of this routine, the gravity of this routine life.

Passion worn out day by day into a mechanical formality to get through.
Hauling sized-up muffin-top up the ladder to the same spot.
Colder feet on the edge each round ahead.
No more athletic medal-worthy exellence to awe the dwindling crowd in the stand.
Holding back the unnecessary jump and expecting less to be on the safe side emotionally.

But what if a klutzy jump without any dazzling twists at an age way past the career peak is all it takes to end the cycle?
What if that one last blind dive doesn't hit through the chilly water, rather send you right into a warm and firm embrace from someone passing by your pool?

A jump unworthy of medals.
A catch worthy of life.