dotism

Narrowness

Lacing in the forest

She sits beside her self at the edge of a lake, herself altogether apart while her self looks out onto a short pier which stretches out from where they sit, narrow and white and made of wooden boards one after the other, at the end of which a young boy is fishing as a novice, himself sitting and absentmindedly toying with the line as a colorful float bobs in the water nearby, himself staring into the water as if in a reverie, his eyes lost in thought.

The boy jerks the line suddenly as he stands upright and shows exertion as he reels in whatever has been snared, his concentration deepening, the tip of his tongue showing itself between teeth bared. After a few moments of undaunted effort, the boy pulls a glass ball through the surface of the water into the air and it is left dangling from the line as he and her self both gaze upon what has been revealed.

The glass ball is not large nor small and is darkly translucent; a hollow, smoky orb, inside of which the answers to every question have become obvious to each and whoever, swirling within the emptiness of it, hazily mixing with the reflection of the water as it warps along the exterior of the sphere, the sun sparkling against it as it hangs from the line, slowly spinning, an opacity growing from where it had been hooked until the transparency of the ball has become a solid blackness, its shell cracking and splintering, sand spilling from the fissures, things falling apart completely until but a shard is left pendulous, all else having returned to the murkiness of the lake, herself now sighing, having become worried about the boy.

It was what I had always wanted,” said the boy to no one, for there was no one there to hear him. “It was the nicest thing. These waters were generous and I am grateful for it, though I shall not try again.”

She watched as he sat once more and prepared his line for another cast, weaving weary wishes onto the hook, past the barb which had taken so much from him, his tears forming puddles on the pier, his diminutive sandals shed yet neatly positioned one against the other and not far from him, they rest there together with the closeness of a friendship, the tightest of bonds, she thought: wouldn’t it be lovely to have something like that?

She sits with her self and listens to the water as its slow, rhythmic ripples twinkle against the stones which comprise the lakeshore, the softness of the gently rushing wind tickling her as it brushes past only to get caught within the leaves of a tree, the rustling, her neck bristling, her self abandoning her there as she swims within her memories, a darkness falling around her as she fails in her struggle with the sheerness of it, slipping helplessly along the side of this churning circumstance, this stunting malady off-kilter, awry, thus leaving her wilting and lost, straggling, and she topples into it after all, her self missing her as she sits beside herself, wondering in which way to wander next, as herself continues to fall.