The Man Who Saw No Reason.
The moon poured its milky mantle onto the dark sea, lighting up the face of the man sitting cross legged on the edge of the beach. A lonely seagull flew overhead, caught by the piercing sweep of light from the lighthouse nestled on the edge of the ragged cliffs, some five hundred metres away. In a way he appeared to be mesmerized by the stars, blinking like messages of code from some spaceship lost in a millennium of time. It was difficult to tell his age, especially the way his coat was wrapped tightly about him, but judging by the keenness in his eye it didn’t really matter. That he was lonely, maybe lost in a world that did not really care, was apparent by the way that he sat hunched over, his body language crying out for someone to rise out of the sea and embrace him like a long lost friend. The waves lapped the shore in a constant wall of sound, almost cosy in a way, a rhythm that could make one almost forget the pain inside, the pain of suffering a loss perhaps, a loved one more than likely. As if on cue, he stood up sweeping the surroundings with the practiced eye of one searching for answers to questions that had no meaning, of trying to find someone who wasn’t there but checking just in case. He walked with purpose, as if he knew where he was going but not knowing how to get there, leaving footprints in the sand almost like a testimonial that he was the only person left on this planet. It certainly seemed that way as his moon shadow trailed behind like a heavy load that just would not get any lighter, almost pulling him back into the depths he was trying to leave behind. Wisps of moist air rose off the water like steam from a hot spring, blanketing the dunes that had seen it all before, unshifting for a million years. The path led gently up the hill towards a row of houses tucked tightly into the side of the mountain in case they might be blown away by some gale, warm and inviting, a shelter for the night that lay ahead. Once inside the man appeared to relax, almost as if this was the end of the journey. The phone book still lay open at the place of a number in a distant land, a reminder of some call to someone far, far away, perhaps the reason for the sadness on his face as he gently closed it and put it away for another day. It didn’t somehow seem fair that a person should go through life looking for a soulmate only to be foiled by the fickle finger of fate. Chances come few and far between but when they do come, it’s with a very narrow window of opportunity that could be missed in the blink of an eye and in one life time how often is that? Like a piece from a jigsaw puzzle, there’s only one picture that it will fit, so how then can one know? How many different pictures are there that will accept the same piece, more than one to be sure, hadn’t life proved that already in so many ways?
Books lay strewn about the place, as if an answer could not be found, pages of knowledge wasted because no two people are the same, no one story to match up the puzzle. The walls were bare of any ornaments; a prison without bars, for loneliness is like a room without windows or doors, a place of despondency that knows no bounds. Money was not an issue because one cannot buy love or happiness, even the richest of the rich are as vulnerable as the poorest of the poor. He sat down in the corner chair with the grace of a falling tree, his breath exhaled in a rush of helplessness, almost knocking the photograph of a beautiful women with long black hair, onto the wooden varnished floor. His face brightened, the reflection of her face clear in his blue eyes. Wiping back the blond hair from his brow revealed a tear forming but soon to be rubbed away by a hand that had seen a lot in its life, a warm, kind type of hand, one used to hard work but long since softened by time. His body ached though from too many hard nights and long days, untouched by the feel that he craved so badly, of someone who would understand what it was like to give and not get anything in return. Someone who he would die for, live for, anything was not enough that he wouldn’t do to be able to say; “I love you.” Is life so complicated, so hard to understand, to learn? Where do you draw the line, how do you gauge the degree of difficulty that’s inherent in every partnership? Questions are easy but the answers are as elusive as the moonbeam dancing on the water. The clock on the desk passed its wary hand across its numeraled face for the next of many hours and minutes, ticking steadily as if it had no care in the world.
Mike MacLeod. 1996.
The moon poured its milky mantle onto the dark sea, lighting up the face of the man sitting cross legged on the edge of the beach. A lonely seagull flew overhead, caught by the piercing sweep of light from the lighthouse nestled on the edge of the ragged cliffs, some five hundred metres away. In a way he appeared to be mesmerized by the stars, blinking like messages of code from some spaceship lost in a millennium of time. It was difficult to tell his age, especially the way his coat was wrapped tightly about him, but judging by the keenness in his eye it didn’t really matter. That he was lonely, maybe lost in a world that did not really care, was apparent by the way that he sat hunched over, his body language crying out for someone to rise out of the sea and embrace him like a long lost friend. The waves lapped the shore in a constant wall of sound, almost cosy in a way, a rhythm that could make one almost forget the pain inside, the pain of suffering a loss perhaps, a loved one more than likely. As if on cue, he stood up sweeping the surroundings with the practiced eye of one searching for answers to questions that had no meaning, of trying to find someone who wasn’t there but checking just in case. He walked with purpose, as if he knew where he was going but not knowing how to get there, leaving footprints in the sand almost like a testimonial that he was the only person left on this planet. It certainly seemed that way as his moon shadow trailed behind like a heavy load that just would not get any lighter, almost pulling him back into the depths he was trying to leave behind. Wisps of moist air rose off the water like steam from a hot spring, blanketing the dunes that had seen it all before, unshifting for a million years. The path led gently up the hill towards a row of houses tucked tightly into the side of the mountain in case they might be blown away by some gale, warm and inviting, a shelter for the night that lay ahead. Once inside the man appeared to relax, almost as if this was the end of the journey. The phone book still lay open at the place of a number in a distant land, a reminder of some call to someone far, far away, perhaps the reason for the sadness on his face as he gently closed it and put it away for another day. It didn’t somehow seem fair that a person should go through life looking for a soulmate only to be foiled by the fickle finger of fate. Chances come few and far between but when they do come, it’s with a very narrow window of opportunity that could be missed in the blink of an eye and in one life time how often is that? Like a piece from a jigsaw puzzle, there’s only one picture that it will fit, so how then can one know? How many different pictures are there that will accept the same piece, more than one to be sure, hadn’t life proved that already in so many ways?
Books lay strewn about the place, as if an answer could not be found, pages of knowledge wasted because no two people are the same, no one story to match up the puzzle. The walls were bare of any ornaments; a prison without bars, for loneliness is like a room without windows or doors, a place of despondency that knows no bounds. Money was not an issue because one cannot buy love or happiness, even the richest of the rich are as vulnerable as the poorest of the poor. He sat down in the corner chair with the grace of a falling tree, his breath exhaled in a rush of helplessness, almost knocking the photograph of a beautiful women with long black hair, onto the wooden varnished floor. His face brightened, the reflection of her face clear in his blue eyes. Wiping back the blond hair from his brow revealed a tear forming but soon to be rubbed away by a hand that had seen a lot in its life, a warm, kind type of hand, one used to hard work but long since softened by time. His body ached though from too many hard nights and long days, untouched by the feel that he craved so badly, of someone who would understand what it was like to give and not get anything in return. Someone who he would die for, live for, anything was not enough that he wouldn’t do to be able to say; “I love you.” Is life so complicated, so hard to understand, to learn? Where do you draw the line, how do you gauge the degree of difficulty that’s inherent in every partnership? Questions are easy but the answers are as elusive as the moonbeam dancing on the water. The clock on the desk passed its wary hand across its numeraled face for the next of many hours and minutes, ticking steadily as if it had no care in the world.
Mike MacLeod. 1996.