Bridge
A short prose pieces, 300 words or the like. I wanted to keep it, so I've put it here, but it wasn't really written with any intent.
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Bridge
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Whenever I have an endless stream of thoughts, I always seem to imagine myself on a bridge; a simple, sturdy, wooden bridge, over-looking the softly churning waters. It’s idyllic, common, and yet, it’s always there. Oddly enough, there are places near here that are almost identical. Almost, though, isn’t the same. Almost is loud, realistic. The creek hums and rumbles and the trees whisper with a thousand leaves. There are bugs and dirt, bitter wind and the scatter beer bottles tossed along the bank, but somehow, I always forget those details in my mind.
They always come back when I remember, but sometimes I feel like letting go. Just forgetting and falling into the world of endless glass and rainless skies; the smooth perfection of ageless wood, spread across the flat moving mirror. There’s constancy there and a feeling of companionship, even alone, but I never talk. Instead I lean on the bowed railing and rest my head on my arms, just watching.
It’s a certain feeling I find there, which brings me peace. It’s hard to explain, or perhaps the difficulty is truly grasping what I feel. Forever in a moment, but a moment all the same, somehow I know this moment, no matter how long, is only a pause between me and tomorrow. There’s no fear in this moment, either. No worries about money or food, about being prepared, as if a confidence is welled somewhere within dreams. There are no expectations either, no thoughts on what is waiting, only a calm, patient, assurance.
The place is fading, now, as I finish writing, as if by pulling away the sheet of namelessness, it has fulfilled some purpose. Perhaps I’ll see it again, the next time a shapeless stream of thoughts begins to run, and I’ll stand on the simple sturdy bridge and watch them flow.