The Perfect Ending
The sound of the swirling water as it laps against the rocky shore of the lake is like to the sound my weeping would make had I a choice. It is almost the constant sound of my life. The continuing sound of tears on rocks; compassion versus obstruction. The difference is that although over time, despite the weakness of the whimpering waves, the rocks will eventually erode and turn to sand, whereas despite my many pleas, my quiet nature, and even the occasional use of thunder to convey my pain, the rock still stands as proud and obtruding as ever. I sometimes imagine that even the wind is in on the joke because despite the weight and mass of the towering abrasive rock, it seems to be able to blow it side to side so it is eternally in my path.
I've taken to having to climb the rock to try to get around it or over it. I bruise and tear my skin trying to find grips and shelves in the uneven shell of the stone. I grasp every last bit of strength in order to simply stay on the rock. Meanwhile, the rock remains impervious and as distant as ever despite my distraught and desperate mood, and, dare I say, "stone-faced" as it does not even notice my already mutilated hands digging into it's surface. I've gotten close to getting over the rock and sometimes I've even seen a branch hanging just above me as if to help me over so I can continue on my path. However, despite the work I have put into getting as far up the rock as I can and despite the branch being only inches from my grasp I am denied the chance to achieve my goal and pass the coldhearted stone for the wind must intervene again and blow the branch away and out of my reach. Sometimes it even snaps the branch off and I watch it slice into my skin as it falls down to the earth: a chance gone.
So the sound of the weak waves lapping on the mud shore is both comfort and scorn. For while I am glad to know I am not the only one who struggles against stones and I am glad to hear the sound of my inner pain actualized, it remains that despite my talent, despite my determination, and despite my willingness to sacrifice and work my whole body to the bones, the charming waves of the local lake can break down stone, while I cannot.
The sound is both refreshing and sinister for it is a tickling sensation all over as if the little tongues are laughing at me, unaware of their extraordinary fortune.
The hawk circles above me now and to my eyes it seems as though he is descending with each circuit. He seemed like a vulture to me. He spotted me from above, a blue spot looking hopeless and forlorn on the shore, and he thought he's find a meal of me. He is waiting for me to expire so he can feast on my shell. He is waiting until I am so weak he can overpower me; walk all over me.
I admit I must seem on that course. I admit I feel as if I am.
He might even think I have already lost; that I have given up. I almost have. I almost welcome him to my most choice parts. What have I left anyway? There is nothing left of value here. I have nothing to hold over him.
The hawk still circles, but it is unlucky for him because then every nerve pulses in me as if I have been struck by lightening or charged by the energy in the dirt.
The hawk circles, but I am not dead. Did you hear that? I am not dead.
