The Glass Refused to Be a Body

I poured myself a glass of water, but the water refused to still. It rippled, shimmered, and splashed over the rim as if it were trying to escape, trying to escape the horror of vesselhood. It ran down the sides of the glass and pooled into a puddle, a small, silver sea at my feet. I tried to catch it, but it slithered like a dream dissolving into daylight. The floor became a river, the walls, a shore. I stepped in. I wasn’t sure if I was walking through or walking into. There is no verb for what I then became.