We’ve maybe only put our head down a few inches into the warm clear sea, our backs are still up there in the sunshine, but we’ve entered another world; strands of seaweed billow elegantly in the light currents; a crab goes by on the sandy bottom; there’s a bright small clownfish darting about. We float and observe; we’re not really participants - there’s nothing we’re supposed to do. The rest of life above, suddenly, feels slightly unreal and irrelevant, relativised by this vast new world that is so rarely spoken of. We’re in an alien element that would drown us - were it not for a short section of tube, which assures us total safety. It takes only a simple, ingenious device to massively extend the range of our experience. All society’s excitement seems directed towards discovering new planets. And yet we need only slip on a mask - and can discover galaxies.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a normal person in search of a holiday will enjoy skiing; they will delight in bracing mountain air, thrill at going down mogul dotted slopes and feel pleasantly exhausted after a day of parallel turns. This assumption about pleasure joins a host of others proposed by the modern world. Normal people will equally enjoy white wine, the Amalfi coast, the novels of Margaret Atwood, dogs, high heels, small children, Miami beach, oral sex, Banksy, marriage, Netflix and vegetarianism. We may legitimately delight in all of these elements; the issue lies in the immense pressure we are under to do so. The truth about ourselves may, in reality, be a great deal more mysterious than the official narrative allows. Whatever our commitments to decorum and good order, we may in our depths be far more distinctive than we’re supposed to be. We may — once we become sensitive to our faint tremors of authentic delight and boredom — hate the idea of jogging, the the...

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