sábado, 7 de novembro de 2009

A Pier

My best friends, they are far away islands I once was close to, sitting on my dingy in the middle of the ocean. Rowing to visit each one, I strayed from course and landed in the middle of the ocean, in a place with a pier popping out of the calm waves with a fishing rod on it's wooden boards.
I placed myself on it's edge and cast my skinny long legs out All Star tips nearly kissing the salty water. I stayed a while, staring at the reflection catching every detail the waves tried to undulate.
I thought long and hard about the times when my feet could step on sand and rock. I thought long and hard about the times when I saw myself a little clearer. And decided that wasn't any less blurry than the images the waves sent me.

A storm had passed, and I found myself a little bored.
So I walked over to the other side and picked up the fishing rod.

I sat back down, same position as I had sat for so many days and nights before this instance. Goosebumps and fears aside I cast the reel in to the farthest depths of the mirror-like water.
There I sat fishing lost for angels in the ocean, the opposite direction one would think.
At times I caught some boots, and it made me wonder if any others were here before me, and wondered if any of them found what they were looking for. Other times I caught fish, but they weren't big enough in my opinion, so I sent them back into the ocean in the hopes that they would grow and eventually someone else like me would show up and reel them in.
I sat for a long time, a long time indeed. In the end I feel a tug and a pull and well, clumsy as I am fell into the ocean.

For all I know, i'm still in it.
But something tells me it pulls and tugs me in the right direction.

Away from the pier, back to the islands.

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