It's a Cold and it's a Broken Hallelujah
I looked down at the docks near the mouth of the Atlantic Ocean - and over to the bridge, and back to the dock. I remember it was cold - colder than I remembered it being.
I guess it had rained, not too long ago, because there were little pools of water on the planks of wood that made the dock, and I could see crevices that had also collected the moisture.
And the water, you never know when it will fall, but it seeps and seeps, deep into the wood. And it warps the wood, and rots it(eats away at it) - it swells and it will never be the same again. And there's no way that someone could pick up the plank and wring it out, ridding it of all the water. No, you can't pick it up, because it is nailed there, strongly - it is the support for so many, but for the rain, it is just an obstacle that it has to clear before getting to the ocean.
I feel better, more sturdy, if you will. Though, at the same time, I felt like it was weakness that allowed me to walk on that dock. Weakness to go back to the sight of the fire.
But, like any great novelist - I started writing this story 3 and a half years ago, and I ran out of pages, I ran out of things to say, questions to ask, and disasters to throw the young heroine into the middle of. Today I wrote the last page:
I said what I needed to, heard what I needed to, felt(one more time) what I needed to feel to finally close the hard-covered back of this book, whose binding is tattered and whose early pages show ink that is running. I brought our young heroine back to the place where the first page was written, but she is nothing like the first page anymore.
It is sad when a story like this one ends - and quite frankly, I may never read again.
But it's nice to know, that at some point in time, the pages held water.
I guess it had rained, not too long ago, because there were little pools of water on the planks of wood that made the dock, and I could see crevices that had also collected the moisture.
And the water, you never know when it will fall, but it seeps and seeps, deep into the wood. And it warps the wood, and rots it(eats away at it) - it swells and it will never be the same again. And there's no way that someone could pick up the plank and wring it out, ridding it of all the water. No, you can't pick it up, because it is nailed there, strongly - it is the support for so many, but for the rain, it is just an obstacle that it has to clear before getting to the ocean.
I feel better, more sturdy, if you will. Though, at the same time, I felt like it was weakness that allowed me to walk on that dock. Weakness to go back to the sight of the fire.
But, like any great novelist - I started writing this story 3 and a half years ago, and I ran out of pages, I ran out of things to say, questions to ask, and disasters to throw the young heroine into the middle of. Today I wrote the last page:
I said what I needed to, heard what I needed to, felt(one more time) what I needed to feel to finally close the hard-covered back of this book, whose binding is tattered and whose early pages show ink that is running. I brought our young heroine back to the place where the first page was written, but she is nothing like the first page anymore.
It is sad when a story like this one ends - and quite frankly, I may never read again.
But it's nice to know, that at some point in time, the pages held water.