On The Pier
On The Pier
As the summer disappears I am left thinking in a chilly breeze that blows through me, echoing in the empty spaces inside me, the gaps between my ribs whistling and my throat murmuring like the sea.
The breeze grows colder, and the icy water beneath the pier seems anxious, lapping at the shores like nervous fingers on a damp impassive desk. I look out across the water and the whole world is a study in black and white, cold-fingered melancholy, a film rendered silent by words unspoken while the camera rolls indifferently on.
There is no art to this film, with its grey water and icy sky, there are no close-ups, no panning over an iconic metaphorical image. The camera is impassive, sees all too much, too soon, too fast. The editor is powerless in his decrepit studio, afraid to stop the celluloid spinning, but still unable to watch.
Three black birds circle, etched against the brooding sky, and the pier creaks as the wind blows harder, and the ancient blackened wood seems tenuous beneath my feet.
In the film playing in my head I am falling, embraced by frigid fingers, stroking my face and pounding in my ears and whispering, holding me up, then pulling me down, and the lightness in my limbs becomes darkness in my head and I open my mouth and feel the cold, and then it is not cold, and I am the cold and I do not feel anything.
But the pier holds. I stand at its edge and watch my reflection in the water, studying my bones through my numb white skin.
It is virginal, my skin. Or rather, like the water, its coldness becomes virtue, the white of isolation turns to purity, like the angelic face of a hermit who never sees the sun. My skin is white and cold and virtuous, and it strikes me as the bitterest of lies that the birds circling overhead should see this reflection in the water and yet know nothing but skin.
Everything inside me is cold, every muscle clenched, passions once thought fiery seem to die. I sit on the rotting pier and look out across the water, ceaseless and deep, and I wonder if I could become the water, sink deep and twine my molecules into the sea.
It starts to rain and I turn away, walking back towards the sidewalk that grows darker with the rain.
As the summer disappears I am left thinking in a chilly breeze that blows through me, echoing in the empty spaces inside me, the gaps between my ribs whistling and my throat murmuring like the sea.
The breeze grows colder, and the icy water beneath the pier seems anxious, lapping at the shores like nervous fingers on a damp impassive desk. I look out across the water and the whole world is a study in black and white, cold-fingered melancholy, a film rendered silent by words unspoken while the camera rolls indifferently on.
There is no art to this film, with its grey water and icy sky, there are no close-ups, no panning over an iconic metaphorical image. The camera is impassive, sees all too much, too soon, too fast. The editor is powerless in his decrepit studio, afraid to stop the celluloid spinning, but still unable to watch.
Three black birds circle, etched against the brooding sky, and the pier creaks as the wind blows harder, and the ancient blackened wood seems tenuous beneath my feet.
In the film playing in my head I am falling, embraced by frigid fingers, stroking my face and pounding in my ears and whispering, holding me up, then pulling me down, and the lightness in my limbs becomes darkness in my head and I open my mouth and feel the cold, and then it is not cold, and I am the cold and I do not feel anything.
But the pier holds. I stand at its edge and watch my reflection in the water, studying my bones through my numb white skin.
It is virginal, my skin. Or rather, like the water, its coldness becomes virtue, the white of isolation turns to purity, like the angelic face of a hermit who never sees the sun. My skin is white and cold and virtuous, and it strikes me as the bitterest of lies that the birds circling overhead should see this reflection in the water and yet know nothing but skin.
Everything inside me is cold, every muscle clenched, passions once thought fiery seem to die. I sit on the rotting pier and look out across the water, ceaseless and deep, and I wonder if I could become the water, sink deep and twine my molecules into the sea.
It starts to rain and I turn away, walking back towards the sidewalk that grows darker with the rain.
posted by Andrew at 8:14 PM
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