For jackie, your words, especially your prose take my breath away and I decided that I could not plagarize your title just like that xD

The sun was late today. It was eight. The sky was lined with threads of darkness. Life seemed to have paused for a breath, only to find there wasn’t any. The lake surface was of a glass coffin, a vast, wide glass coffin that extended across the equator, marking the time when the Great Flood occurred.

It was an unusual day. The sun looked like new, hovering over the beautiful decay. It was just the sun and the water, the water and the sun. Both of which can’t decide who is more alive than the other. The skyline was clear—like the centre of the ocean, a ship sailing towards the sun–

Only to be scalded and burnt into particles, particles—ashes scattered into the ocean in memory of its death—the sea as its beautiful glass coffin, the cabin of eternal rest.

He rubbed his shoes against the drier grounds. It was smudged with mud. Had it been raining though? He didn’t know. Nothing seemed to dry up nowadays.

The sky was bleached, pure white. Peering down into the glass coffin, he felt encaged in a mental ward. It was a pleasant day; pleasant synonymous with a dead sense of calm without a hint of an impending storm.

Quiet heart.

Jim sat down on a boulder.

Caw, caw, caw.

Great, big vultures dotted the sky, signaling their next hunt. He was surprised—with death, it meant the existence of life. He lit up. There was life after all.

He almost leapt up. But in this half-rising stance, he paused. He had witnessed death, a hope that kept him artificially alive. It was dead life. He collapsed back onto the boulder like a fish that died open-eyed on its last breathe while struggling back from the scalded sand back into the water.

He couldn’t cry. A cry was the plea for the better, a sign of hope, like the horizon—you could see but could not reach. There was no hope. No hope anymore.

He looked into the lake, through the reflection, through the water. He tried to conceive which fish would be the first to scour up his inert body 3 days later. Through the fish is water, water and water. And through them all is where he would be.

Resting.

The water was warm that April’s day. He eased himself into his reflection, merging himself into one.

 

Advertisements