Some lines ask to be followed, like the thick black line at the bottom of the swimming pool. Its so reassuringly adamant about showing me the way. Obediently I follow and even try to race it to the end of the lap. Its bold blackness tells I won’t win but I don’t mind.

Everything is okay, as long as no one else tries to swim in my lane, along my line. I have become as arrogant as my big black line.