The fish called F swam in the sea. F had its fins to guide it through the water, its eyes to see, and its digestive system to process nutrients for its sustenance. Its gills were smoothly functioning respirators. It did not ever have to wonder about anything, for the answer was always apparent without needing even to be asked. F was very happy, for it knew its environment like the back of its fin. It also knew how its neighbours and colleagues functioned, what made them tick. Therefore, it did not ever fear what the other fish might do to it, for it knew the other fish could never gain access to its treasured pearls. The other fish would never seek to or be able to devour it, for F's success was indispensable to the ecosystem, and the other fish relied on it for their own livelihood. There was no question of worry, anxiety or trouble, for everything was negotiable, and success was a birthright. Life was fluid and nice.
One fine morning, as the rays of the sun glistened off the surface of a recumbent oyster (it was such a bucolic day as of usual), F found that something was thrusting it upwards, applying an insidious pressure on its underside. F, strangely, felt an odd resentment to this. It was odd that it should feel resentment towards this upward thrust; it was this very same ascensionary pressure that F felt and thrived on day in, day out. So, why was it experiencing an antagonism towards something it had always loved and trusted? A strange anxiety began to grip F and slowly, but surely, F was paralysed. It just could not move through the water. Desperate, F sent shooting bursts of neural instruction to its tailfin for it to move and propel its body forward, it thrashed and flailed, but the water seemed intractable. F seemed no longer to have any clout with the water. The other fish were staring at it, their big fishy eyes agape. They seemed genuinely concerned about the plight F appeared to be in. They seemed to want to help, and they crowded around F, trying to observe it from all angles.
Some told F that it had to kick its tailfin harder, that it was guilty of laziness and lacking in self-love. If F could speak, it might have been able to explain that the state it was in seemed to be one of doom, that there seemed nothing within its power to make its tailfin move. But its explanations were incoherent. None of its famed, trusted mental clarity seemed able to work, and whenever F tried to speak, only hazy spumes of seawater and seasand took shape. No communication could take place.
Soon, the relationship between it and the other fish became confrontative. F did not understand why such smart, successful diagnosticians among the other fish were clueless about how to effect a cure in him. Truth be told, F was horribly frustrated with itself and the mutinous water which would no longer be friends with it. And with the exasperation the other fish displayed at F's seemingly stubborn refrain that it was feeling incorrigibly incapacitated, F began to feel like the other fish were in some way responsible for his insane condition.
As F reflected on memories of its past triumphs and wondered how to revanche lost territory, it only encountered wispy semblances which, it appeared, need not even ever have been true. It began to doubt its past, its self, its very core right to love, success and life. These were dreary times, they were.
F knew it did not want to be swimming with the fishes. It wanted to be eligible to partake once more of the wonders and beauties of its Life.
Then F experienced a sharp tug that dragged it straight upwards, towards the light. F went along, but never succumbed to the despondent submission of labeling sadness as being its inherent nature. So long as the pathology persisted, F never stopped squirming and sulking, and thus did it confirm what must constitute success and happiness to it. F did never give in. F was a fish ordained to see the ether after all.
One fine morning, Life became a breeze. F was a flying fish.