It's idyllic. Scenic.
A perfectly placid lake reflecting a flawless, forested hill. Sitting on the dock, feet dangling over the edge, gazing into a large pane of liquid glass. I try and exert precognition.
A scrying sheet to wring out.... something.
My supply of pebbles is almost exhausted. And my wrist aches from the repetition of whipping out ideas. One thousand snaps of the crook of my hand, releasing a little piece of me with every throw. There is improvement from sheer practice, but it's ultimately subjective. Unqualifiable. Irrelevant without an audience.
Sometimes I observe with silent satisfaction as a poorly-spun oval smashes into the water. Shattered drops of crystal burst upward and out. Each one houses a disturbed memory that isn't mine, but I think I recognize anyway.
The skipping stone sinks and playfully disturbs the little garden at the bottom of the pool. The waterline shudders reflexively. Threateningly.
If I were younger, or angrier, I'd play Sisyphus. Long enough to crush the pond.
But I'm not. Not anymore.
Still, mostly I try and make each centrifugal arc of my arm leave the pellet on the other side of the lake, instead of choking it with gravel. Six bounces. Ten. Ten and thirty seven.
A design of flattened spheres forms on the other bank. At a distance, it might look like forgiveness. But my eyes can still depict the symbolism of cowardice in the way they fall.
Do I blame myself? Or the water?
The ripples always catch my attention, but fade too quickly. Always, there is a swift return to precious stagnation. The deception of the image of the idyllic.
The ripples never turn into waves that I hope they will. Tiny, consuming tsunamis that Mean Something.
I guess that's to be expected. No one wants to have to swim for their life every day.
11:41 p.m. - 2014-05-14
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