He was a bit of a drip. In fact most people described him as completely half soaked. A long drink of water, he was thin too, looking so much younger than his years that most people still thought he was wet behind the ears, and paid him no attention. He did little to remedy people's opinions; in fact, he was most frequently described as being dull as ditchwater. Often he appeared all at sea; and even when focused he was a real wet blanket, his glass always half-empty
Things were not always as they seemed, though. While on the outside he might appear to be a fish out of water, a bit of a shower, inside, different tides surged through him. What was that saying about still waters running deep? Well, his external nature only served to muddy the waters; what went on inside blew all of that out of the water.
He had tested the water many times; he knew that treading water wouldn't cut it any more; it was time to sink or swim. His old, watered down existence was simply water under the bridge. No longer would he put a dampener on what went on around him, pouring cold water onto even his own ideas. Now it was time to pool his resources, no matter how much of drain it seemed, no matter how washed out it made him feel. His old life washed away like water from a duck's back; it was time for a sea-change. Come hell or high water, no matter who leaked what about him, he was determined. He would take that horse to water. And he would damn well make it drink.
*no apologies for a bit of watery silliness, inspired by floods, plumbers, accidental overuse of watery idiom, and the realisation of how much the idea of water permeates (here we go again) the English language...
Things were not always as they seemed, though. While on the outside he might appear to be a fish out of water, a bit of a shower, inside, different tides surged through him. What was that saying about still waters running deep? Well, his external nature only served to muddy the waters; what went on inside blew all of that out of the water.
He had tested the water many times; he knew that treading water wouldn't cut it any more; it was time to sink or swim. His old, watered down existence was simply water under the bridge. No longer would he put a dampener on what went on around him, pouring cold water onto even his own ideas. Now it was time to pool his resources, no matter how much of drain it seemed, no matter how washed out it made him feel. His old life washed away like water from a duck's back; it was time for a sea-change. Come hell or high water, no matter who leaked what about him, he was determined. He would take that horse to water. And he would damn well make it drink.
*no apologies for a bit of watery silliness, inspired by floods, plumbers, accidental overuse of watery idiom, and the realisation of how much the idea of water permeates (here we go again) the English language...
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