The whirlpool of “what ifs” is terrible. Running around in circles of uncertainty can make even the most confident person falter their step. I’m not sure when I wrote this little piece, for I have moved far too many times to far too distant places, dreamed of it even. But now that I re-read it, the timing seems apt and a love far too real gets left behind again.
This is a part of Confessions Series. Written and forgotten in old sketchbooks, bought to life again here.
Four dim lights,
Music floating around,
Young people swaying,
Feet etching a tattoo on the ground.
Three bottles of rum,
Snippets of conversation,
Bouts of laughter,
Stories told sans hesitation.
Standing in different edges,
Hesitantly catching each others’ eye,
Waiting for the chaos to tune out.
Comprehending the dynamics of love and hate,
Amidst a party,
That doesn’t die down or resonate.
“It’s easier to walk on water than to swim against the crowd” he says to no one, standing there at the rocky beach, where the waves crash with the mountains such that thunder claps and tears fall.
He looks around to no one. The people around him, they all seem oblivious to this thunderous roar and the rain of salt water. They move in hurdles and groups, talking in silence, with their feet gliding. They stare at him wide eyed, if he ever singled out one person to ask a question. Time ticks with every drop of salty rain, almost in sync with time.
The tears never stop falling from the sky and yet the people hunch themselves in their overcoats and glide even more. His failed attempts at walking and gliding are mocked by none .He just stands there, waiting, waiting to be shuffled or pushed .