I think to myself, what a wonderful way to die? I stand high over the world, the rushing air against my ears and the falls almost like fire below. I nearly sink back into nature, my feet almost melt with the force of water below them. The strength of the waterfalls awe me into a daze, their pure, wild nature. The rusty metal bridge gives a creek as I step forward. It says to me, go on, take your leap. It’s seen so many others like me, their bare feet gripping to the metal grids, trusting the old bridge to hold them, and then to release them (when they are ready). The old bridge tells me, go on. But in a patient manner, because it’s used to waiting. It’s used to standing there for years on its old spindly legs, alone, and then one singular person comes wandering along. They wander as if lost, yet knowing exactly where they are going. They wander to the edge of the bridge. In the last, singular moments of life they have a conversation with everything around them. Just before they jump, their deep breathing talks to the wind, their bones talk to the birds, their fingers talk to the dirt, their eyes talk to the green leaves, their soles talk to the old metal bridge.
I curl my toes around the edge. I close my eyes. I rock there. The bridge groans. So long… It says, and I say so long, though I don’t really know what that means. I’m beginning to wonder what anything means. What ‘how are you’ means, ‘are you ok’, ‘friend’. I wondered what a smile really was, what a wave of the hand was. And I wondered what it meant to cry, or to watch someone cry. I wondered if the bridge could feel the difference between a salt tear, and the clear, pure spray of the falls.
Is it too late? Can I still take the leap? My foot is posed over the open air, my eyes are closed. I’m feeling the air like a new born baby, like a blind man, like the last breath.
The Wind Flowing Past
My Body Like A Rag Doll
Seeing The Sky Spinning
The Bridge Is In The Sky.
I hit the water and crumple. The water takes me in its hands, its firm, cool hands. It handles me rough. It throws me into the depths where the sound roars past my ears. The water takes its place in my lungs, I’m breathing water. The hands are still rough. They fling me into the rocks where my head makes a crack like a gunshot. A ribbon of red is streaming past me, being carried into the river’s stretching arms.
I am a ragdoll. I am no longer in control of my body. I have given up all to the water, to the nature, to the roaring and the whispering.
The hands become more gentle.
They sift through the water, the dirt, the rocks, the fallen leaves, and me. They bundle me up like a drowned rabbit and deposit me in the shallow water. My eyelids slide open in the clear, pure water. My eyes are clean and bright as glass. I’m looking right into a blue sky, wide and blue and deep and beautiful and pure. All I can see is the sky, and I can see the bridge standing way above me, and someone else on it, ready to leap.