The other day I sat by the river, watched the sunlight dance across the ripples in the water and the gentle tide pull pieces of driftwood to the bank. In the river I saw myself; a lone peice of debris, head barely above the cold, being pulled to and fro in no particular direction – just flowing where the waves decided to take me.
I thought about life and its unpredictable nature. About how even the best laid plans can slip like sand between your fingers. How the only constant is change. How we’re supposed to just go with the flow.
I’m battered and I’m worn, from the stones in the river that scrape the soles of my feet. Nauseous from the constant change in tide. I’m exhausted from fighting the inevitable, but not so lethargic I will give myself to the water. Too stubborn to be washed back up on another shore, just to rebuild the things that got washed away.
My hopes and my dreams are just that; tiny made-up fragments of desire trying to stay warm in my clenched palms. But they are mine, and mine alone. I will not surrender them,
And if they are prised from my fingers, by an endless swell of rushing water, then I would rather drown.