December 1, 2011
By matticus SILVER, Port St. Lucie, Florida
matticus SILVER, Port St. Lucie, Florida
6 articles 0 photos 6 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward."

The smell of brine fills my nose as I lean over the edge of the pier; the opaque water below me sloshing against the wooden beams of the bridge with just enough force to move it. The rocking motion is comforting.
A mother lulling her child to sleep.
Long car rides up the coast in a yellow ford focus that didn’t so much drive as it hopped and clanked.
Warm sand between my toes and laughter that used to come so easily…
A gust of cold night air slams into my face. My eyes, which had closed on their own accord, snap open in the presence of the exhilarating breeze.
Hot tears find their way to the surface and run freely down my face. Whether they are from the wind or not is beyond me.
My mind wanders for a few moments; searching for something.
I take a deep breath and my lungs open hungrily, as if they had been starved of breath for days and were now feasting upon the salty ocean wind.
Sulfuric yellow light from the street lights above me cast a glow across the water. The outlet is no longer a simple place for boats to chug through tirelessly; dumping trash and oil residue in their wake, but instead a portal to another world. Another time. Lacquered in shades of gold, black, and silver the water calls me closer to the edge.
A siren, churning and frothing in the ecstasy of absolute freedom, it is coaxing me to jump.
And I want to.
I want to know what you’re feeling. I wonder what it’s like…
I’ve been wondering about a lot of things lately though. None of it makes much sense to me and none of it really has to.
My thoughts are similar to the ocean in that way. Careless and untamed, they have their way with me like the ocean has its way with the crust of the world. Wearing it down slowly with each passing day until there is nothing left but sand.
And easily blown away.
I loosen my grip on the railing of the pier; my knuckles bone white and throbbing. Small splinters of wood cover my palms. I take special care to look at them; each tiny grain its own point of pain.
And I feel it.
For both of us.

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