The roar of the engine halts. The cicadas take over, filling the air with an endless supply of croaks. We float. The size of the boat is just large enough to fit in your living room. The light comes not from the sun, it was gone hours before, but from the stars. Orion glares at us with envy. The only artificial light comes from homes far off in the distance. We are floating in the middle of the lake, gazing up at the night sky in awe of the portrait that has been enjoyed for millions of years. One deserving of being hung in the finest art museum and for all we know we are the only viewers. The blanket hugs me, bringing memories of a warm fire and the comfort of a mother’s hug; however, I leave it. 

I jump. I hurl myself off of the side cushions into the dark, empty lake. As I am in the air I feel the cool summer night under my feet, weightless as a feather, but then comes the splash. I am submerged under a lake with nothing in it besides the fish mother nature bestowed it. The silence it provides cools my auditory, just as the calming feel of white noise does. I embrace it for a second, and then I surface. As I float there on the surface, I am reminded of the intricacies of my day: the events, the thoughts, and the emotions. The intense cold of the water numbs my fingers, yet enhances the warmth in my chest and brain. I sit there for minutes basking in that fight between cold and warm within my own body. However, like many things in life, the cold wins and I immediately feel what was impending on me for the previous minutes. I frantically splash my way to the boat ladder to recover whatever resemblance of warmth my body has left. Finally, I am met with the taste of the warm fibers of a towel that ends the meditative experience of the last thirty minutes.