Sunday, 19 February 2012

• Waiting

  “But to me, it looks as if you look at my hand (or anyone's hand) and you look out at the ocean on a dark moonlit night, and you feel its pull more.” @silveranstavern

  http://myhomeiswriting.xanga.com/742105713/the-man-on-the-water-revised/

  He came to me like a dream from out of the horizon in midday, walking upon water like Jesus Christ, and ever since the call of the ocean, of the unknown, of the west, of death has been strong inside my head, like the sound of the ocean inside a shell pressed to my ear, or the voices heard through the static on the radio.

  He came, he conquered, he won, and I never put up a fight, and to this day I won’t regret it. I was the one sitting on that lonesome beach listening to the call of the birds, of the ones who always told me they loved me, and I ignored them entirely when he presented me his skeletal hand, because it was always his arms about my waist that I wanted, it was always the unknown, the ocean, the west, death that I longed for.

  I looked out upon that expanse of moonlit lake from the second floor porch as Journey spun a relentless tune inside my ears, and all I wanted was everything I’d never had, all I wanted was him, but he never came across the water for me that night; he waited until years later to cross the ocean of my dream, that place where we all go down to drink and catch a little fish.

  I’m a shroud sitting upon those stone benches, waiting for the Hollyhocks, waiting for him to cross the water like the savior of mankind, and yet all I’m staring at is an eternally setting sun or a bloated full moon, it changes with the waning of my moods. I’m waiting for the wind to change, and the irony is that in this place of dreams, of screams and laughter, I will be waiting forever and always.

  I will never leave this lonesome stretch of beach, and he will never walk over the waves and offer me his hand. I will never take his hand in mine and we will never walk out over the ocean into the west, into the unknown, into death. I will wait here alone, surrounded by other shrouds and still alone, but I will wait here for the Hollyhocks, for sunset and sunrise, forever.

  He came to me in a dream, but the reality is that I am still waiting.

   

  *Hollyhocks, waiting for the wind to change, shrouds, the pool where we all go down to drink and catch a little fish are all references to Stephen King's Lisey's Story. I really advise reading it someday.

  You won't understand this, and that's part of the point, but don't tell me it's detached, because this is the most personal fucking thing I've written in ages.

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