The sun glints off the water, water as still as a skating rink. The golden and blood-red leaves perfectly reflected on the surface of the water. A fish jumping above the water, making ripples that disturb the leaves with a non-existent wind. The last of the summer heat caressing my body with its dying embers.
The world feels calm.
These are days that I wish could go on forever.
They never do. The next day is grey. Everything feels contaminated by the greyness. It seeps into everything. A day when you feel a primeval urge to curl up beside a fire and not set out into the world.
Then the rain comes. Constant. A rain that looks like it will never end. The puddles forming, only as a way to further reflect the grey light. My bones feel it, everything aches. A cold permeates that chills right to my soul.
These are the days that go on forever.
Have you ever stood on the edge? Really on the edge? One small movement and you’ll have gone to the abyss. The edge being so narrow, and you’re surrounded by the abyss. You could look at the abyss, but you’d lose your balance. Fall. Would falling be so bad? Would it be over in a second or would it be an eternity, or both? I should just fall. Let go, live in the moment, and fall. Fall. Would it all end, or would this just be a new beginning? Fall. All roads lead to Rome, the abyss. It all ends here. Fall. Why stand, take control, fall. Dive in, it looks so comforting. Coddle yourself in the darkness. Be safe, be comforted, fall. Come and dive in. It’ll be alright.
I grew up involved in activities that are now called action sports. Many of the writers on the subject had a strange affinity with Bukowski. It permeated the culture, and for a few people, this was their high brow reading.
Now, I’m not saying that Bukowski can’t be highbrow. The language change and growth in “Ham on Rye” is certainly worth discussing, but making Bukowski the pinnacle seems to be a weird choice.
It certainly fits with the toxic male persona that many action sports had, even if they tried to hide by saying we were all creative. It may have been another reason why there were hardly any women involved in these sports until recently.
The printed media has disappeared in these sports pretty much. It’s all gone online, and with it, so to have the writers who loved Bukowski. Is this one of those coincidences, or is it a changing of attitudes.
Who knows, I’m just pondering?
Fearfully I step. Each step hesitant. Moving at what feels like a glacial pace. Each and every shadow making me jump. I need to be away from here. I need to be free of here. I can’t be here, why am I here?