THE PIER OF SOMEWHERE

Authoress: Tainted Tears


Have you ever felt like where you are now… is not where you want to be? Because time seemed like it had come to a tedious halt as I sat there… just sitting there upon my window sill, wondering. Always wondering. That's me. Questioning… doubting… but above all, just wondering.

And so, I gazed at it all. A hazed window witnessing the youngest day of autumn as the season desperately, yet tenderly tried to break away from the attachments of summer. Trees being asked to alter their serene, evergreen shades to rich hues of fall. A wooden pier that leads to a neighboring lake that seemed so vague. From what it use to be, which was a lake filled with careless scatterings of crystals, now it seems to be draped by this desolating shadow that wants to linger so close by. And a secluded boat, drifting mindlessly across the facade of water, as if it was… lost.

Like myself.

How the nights passed me by as my days grew dimmer by each thought of wanting to get away... just to be something else. Just to be someone else. But even with the hopes of a better life, I am still where I am… and with no rest of what to do in this sad half-life.

Staring at that melancholic splendor outside, a sudden thought arose from all the ashes of my mind. Call it strange, but would it be reasonable to think that, even in that ever embracing cold, I could actually find something to numb my ruthless thoughts?

'Let's find out…'

Well, nothing else was needed to be said. My soul had long gone been transfixed by the beckoning of the world outside this bedroom. With a black notebook and a jacket in hand, I gradually abandoned that self-pity room and into what seemed like a paradoxical dreamscape.

As soon as I had reached the wooden pier, I could feel the light pounding of my heart for what seemed like nothing. Nothing, it was, but I couldn't help but wonder whether I had gone crazy or what. What person walks outside in the early morning for no apparent reason?

'Obviously me…' I thought with foolish contempt. But walked on, I did, until I had finally come to the hedge of the wooden pier. Placing my precious black notebook near me, I sat down with a sign that had been waiting to come out for quite some time.

Glancing downwards, I noted how close the water is to my white sneakers as well as how sinister it appears to be. Why, if I lived in an imaginary world, it would seem like the water itself is trying to seduce me to my drowning death…

Adverting to the dejected vastness before me, I wondered once more how was it did I get to this point of my life. This point of my life where mostly everything I see and feel is tainted by my childish lies. Odd, how the truth seem so foreign to me…

Finding peaceful slumber in this world would be unattainable for there is too much in stake. I seem so brave on the outside, but inside… I am a complete coward. I have done too much sins and deeds that no one can ever really forgive. I am trapped in a maze that is draped with thorny walls of deceit and confusion.

As fate has its own way of things, this journal itself is me. A black covering to frighten innocents with uptight fixations that the world is "wonderful", and the inside contents raging with demons of a deceiving artist. However, you can never know more than beyond her explicit stories and blood-taking poetry, for she does not write anything that directly links to her distorted reasons.

With a hand on my black notebook, I concluded to myself how true that prolonged metaphor sounds. Yes, that flat object under my hand (that is swollen with years of tears, angers, and fears) is me, indeed. Short, but unforgettable stories of suicide and damnation, and poems of bleak desperation and of the possibility of being half of a person.

Yet… even as dark and lost as I can ever be… I know, deep down, I still have that faint hope of seeing tomorrow, without the tainted lies and deceitful masks. It's somewhere down there, and I suppose… it's the one thing that gets me going.

"Yes… it is the one thing that gets me going." I murmured to myself with a small, encouraging smile. It felt strange to my face muscles, for it seemed like it has been ages since I could smile so generously.

For awhile… I just sat there, with mindless thoughts of no particular direction dotting around my head. With crossed legs, I picked up my battered notebook and opened the first few pages.

These beginning pages were filled with startled words of how things are getting out of hand, and how I wish that things would be back to "normal." Soon came the showing of me feeling jaded and faded by the endless, endless duplicity caused my own infamous self. Later came the pages describing how I'm tired by the ever-lasting facade, and how suicide would come as a pleasant relief. Cutting myself until I could bleed no more, hanging myself in my room, shooting myself in front of my parents, drowning out here… all these suicidal desires written down as an on-going list.

Then came these last few pages of this lingering despair that I suffer every day of my sad life. How, even looking in the mirror, causes me the horror that that person in the mirror isn't me at all. How my face is inked on with scattered words, such as "liar" and "pretender." Passing and skipping by some more pages, I came across the last entry, which happened to be the unfinished poem I had written some days ago. It read:

The 6th of February, 2005

"Oh, bliss… where have you gone?

Have my lies become the devil's spawns?

Oh, bliss… am I too lost to be saved?

Has my death bed already been engraved?

Can I not have another chance?

Or have I exceeded all circumstance?

Am I to be a living wasteland?

With both heaven and hell banned?

Is this life getting ready to be done?

All ready ending before it has even begun?"

Even in the time of identity crisis, I couldn't help but find how well off it sounds. But I also quickly noted the desperation of it all, and a little part of me wanted to do something to change that. So, following the tempting impulse, I wrote down a few lines to suit the bizarre itch.

With the last word of the last line written, I nodded in grand approval. Yes… this would do, for it now read:

The 6th of February, 2005

"Oh, bliss… where have you gone?

Have my lies become the devil's spawns?

Oh, bliss… am I too lost to be saved?

Has my death bed already been engraved?

Can I not have another chance?

Or have I exceeded all circumstance?

Am I to be a living wasteland?

With both heaven and hell banned?

Is this life getting ready to be done?

All ready ending before it has even begun?

But can I not cut off fate and its grasping ties?

Because I do believe I can make a compromise,

A compromise that stops this endless regret,

And into something I can lastly forget,

I'll take a chance on this,

And have my take on yearning bliss,

I'm certain that this maze will soon end,

And that my self-wounds will mend,

But who'd even guess that my utter despair,

Was solved out here, in the pier of somewhere?"

I stared all around me, as if I was seeing for the first time. My orbs widen themselves, trying so vainly to capture every detail of the landscape before me.

The altering trees that is still alive, even as the coldness battle for its territory. This wooden pier, that once seemed so rigid and abandoned, now acts like a pathway that wants to lead to some place. Underneath it is the usual lake that calmly shows a scattered linage of appearing diamonds and crystals. And that boat, that once seemed so alone and faithless, was slowly – little by little – moving again. Where to, you ask?

Somewhere. That boat is moving somewhere.


Ending Notes: Not my finest one-piece, I admit… but I'm thoroughly satisfied. As for the poem, I love it and am quite proud that I am the poet of it. I hope this is to your gratification as it has been of mines!