[The consistency of groundless shadows]
An old bald man walks beside you and falls into step,
(chances are you’ve never seen him before, but you know the type)
the kind that you see everywhere but never really know
what they’re up to and you don’t really know what he is
up to.
But he seems friendly enough and you let him/
walk beside you for awhile.
“I know a good story”. he says.
After three blocks, you’ve crossed streets, and seen other people,
(they don’t seem to notice the old man next to you/they carry on walking)
and you find yourself saying “Tell me”,
because you’ve got time to fuck away,
and he reminds you of the truth,
that you haven’t heard a good story in years.
And so he starts,
Telling you the story.
At first he’s hard to hear,
In the deluge of morning madness, evening madness,
Noise is too loud for a soft story to be told/heard.
But you try your best,
And you realize he’s talking in a frequency,
That is specifically tuned to your brain matter.
“
A little red lighthouse, standing on a rocky shore, was where a man worked, and lived. In all things, he is alone. In the morning, he sleeps, wary from the previous nights’ work. It is tedious work, cold, numbing. In this, the man is thankful for dawn. For dawn carries with it warmth, light, and all the feelings that the man is unable to comprehend, when he is working in the desert night.
The man’s only sound is the crashing of waves. Occasionally, a passing ship would sound it’s horn, in appreciation of the little red lighthouse’s only occupant. In this too, the man was thankful. He would imagine the adventures of passing ships, passing birds, passing winds. In his mind, the man would paint a million pictures of marvels and wonders – he would travel everywhere, in his little red lighthouse.
One night, the man imagines a ship crashing into the rocky shore. It is a horrible image, with people dying, gasping for air, crushed between cutting rocks and empty water. He is surrounded by death. It is all his fault.
The next morning, the man is unable to sleep. He worries about his vision, and in solitude, walks along the shore. There, he meets his shadow, cast from the sun, etched upon the rocks.
“,” the man’s shadow whispers to him.
That night, a ship crashes into the rocky shore. There was no light from the little red lighthouse. The people on the ship died; drowned in blood and salt, floating bodies, rotting flesh. The man stands, watching as his victims gasp for air, fighting for survival, and failing in the end. In the end, he is surrounded by death. It is all his fault.
The next morning, the man sleeps, wary from the previous nights’ work.
”
You see, the old bald man says.
In this, the man has finally understood the importance of his job. His responsibilities as a human being. In being flawless, he is an uncontaminated specimen, a neutrality in a physical space that Always Changes, an unequated answer, to a question that was never asked, in the first place.
It is provincial then, that the man’s shadow tells him the truth of his vision. That he must learn the truth of his life. The sunlight, now brings new meanings, new experiences to the man, beyond warmth, beyond the un-coldness. He will forever remember his victims, in the cold, numbing nights of his little red lighthouse.
“It is a good story”.
You tell the old bald man who gently
nods and walks away wearily
and you notice for once
the saltiness of his breath,
and the shortness of his shadow.