He'd been in there for how long now?
It was hard to say. At least they fed him. At least he was safe.
Anything was better than before right? It was peaceful here.
It's time to take the medicine. He's forgotten how long it's been since he started the course. But he feels so much better now.
If I can close my eyes and picture the sea I'll always be free.
The gift had come as it always had in it's rightful place on the metal tray; set where the painted lilly met the water, the food and drink set about like so much flotsam. But the letter was always in the same place. As before the letter, worn and caressed, held the one piece of medicine he still had.
But with the tray set aside and it's contents fully consumed there was little to sustain him and thoughts went back to their worn grooves.
Who was it that wrote that message?
That careful, warm hand. Nothing like the cold terse writing that informed him of the process of his treatment.
It seamed familiar somehow, like he should know the answer.
But no answer comes.
The speculation drifts and sets into it's ceaseless churning.
All likely possibilities are considered. All outcomes are sourced.
There was simply no reachable conclusion without additional information.
This cruel fact was inescapable.
But it was one of the few unknowns he still had.
A tear starts to form in his eye and he lets it fall, appreciating one more change in his surroundings.
The smell of the warm salt surpassing for one moment the ever cloistering must of dust and old foam.
The tear falls into the dry, worn carpet, too thin to make up for the hard concrete beneath his bare feet; the cold leeching the comfort from him.
He forces himself to gaze out the window, past the wooden bed frame. The second bunk long since emptied. Past the concrete sink, the one that faintly showed the dancing butterflies and the swan wing taps. Through the cast iron grill and it's dull, entangled vines and out into the bare faced courtyard that is so measured in it's grey design. He looks at the softening angles of the once harsh concrete, the dirty grey ceding ground to the leaves of another creeper vine.
He tells himself he admires the age. But he knows he's stalling. He has to look further.
His eyes fall, grudgingly into the room, much like his own, where another one once stood and stared back.
He liked to think that the other one smiled. That they looked forward to their daily meeting. That they cared for him as much as he cared for them.
But he's gone now. Some time ago. It was still hard to think about.
Another missed connection.
It's getting dark. He's almost ready to close his eyes now.
It's hard to feel like he's really here any more.
It's hard to feel like,
really here any more.
i thought it was for the best
to come here and find peace
But maybe that's not what you needed.
Maybe there was still something left to offer ourselves.
It's too late now I guess.
Our tears are dried.
There's no use trying to explain things any longer
no use trying to reason what has happened.
Picture the sea.
Let it stretch out onward. Past the horizon. Past your imaginations greatest guess.
Listen to the water. Feel the turn of the boat as it rocks gently upon the ocean
the waves lapping at the sides.
Take in the glow of the sun as it plays of the waves.
Take the damn pill and find peace.