Photo Credit: The Man on the Bridge
by Lydia Butz
Part 1
There was something in the air. The night had just recently turned cold and the bitter wind from the west ruffled the mangy hair of a now alone John Hackery. Looking out onto the ridge of the mountain range just visible in the distance, the clouds met the horizon and the blanket of an incandescent glow from the small town lit the bottoms of the sky. Strange he thought, that everyone seemed to be off in their own swirls of temperamental modest living that now, not a single soul knew any of the wiser that there was a man alone on a defunct bridge pondering what it all meant. John looked down and could barely make out the formation of the cold hard concrete in the calm waters of the Tar River. His reflection on the bridge brushed away in the slight and steady current that parted downstream past the columns that held up the dilapidated two-lane road above the water. He had reached this point in his travels; one side held onto the thought of returning from where he came while the other slowly convincing him to move onward. It was all to often that such a thought, or thoughts more commonly, conflicted with the notion of what felt right. In a way the events that had since lead up to this point in his life appeared to be all his own doing, why wouldn’t the will of the world take him? If he allowed it to be as such, maybe at least he would have been given a better chance. The flash of realization coaxed him into placing his foot on the first rung of the rail. He peered over. “It’s all peanuts,” he whispered to himself. His left foot found the second rung while he struggled to maintain his balance. His eyes met the sky and looked off into the distance, where the trees meant the late evening sky. “In another life.” The wind sailed through his garments. The sound of hitting the water echoed from under the bridge. A flock of chimney swifts circled nearby at the suddenness of the splash from the waters below.
In his hand what remained was a note written some ten years ago dispelling to himself a journal entry that was now floating downstream in a coffee can. The contents of which were all but a mystery to him, and him alone. He had made a copy of the entry. Looking at it now as the shadow of the tin cylinder traveled quickly with the river’s current, he read it to himself under the incandescent glow of a nearby street lamp,
“There was a time when I was blind. The notion of being able to traverse space and time using my thoughts was a concept completely novel to me. For what was the better part of my youth I strove to find the meaning and purpose to my life but all inquiries came up short. There was never any time to begin the journey in a way that would allow me purpose and meaningful direction. I think the issue was that I was ignorant. Ignorant of the masses that strove for perfection to their own rhythm while I sought a beat that was uniquely my own. Much to the detriment of my own doing there was something that I could not quite place continuing forward on these paths that seemed to end nowhere. I felt I was almost as if a lighthouse keeper, keen on knowing the movement of the ocean yet looking forever in the distance at any possible ships that may have gone astray. I myself had gone astray, in my own respect not knowing if there would be a lighthouse on my horizon, forever circling back toward shore in a storm that was beyond my control. What had eventually brought me back were the thoughts and wishes of my own being, of wanting to be successful in my own right in a way that I only knew how. It was difficult most times mainly because I had not yet been successful and in attempting to do so would mean that I would neglect my sense of well-being. It wasn’t anything that I wanted, to continue onward blind to the fact that most days the waves that I placed into the world were brought on by storms of sorrow and longing for something better. I had not wished that any of it was true yet on further inner reflection I found that my greatest fears concerning the validity of such to be confirmed. There would be a time that I wished I could venture forth without sinking back into the norms of conventional feelings of wisdom. There was always a time that I felt I could outwit myself in the past yet this time it was different. Such an aspiration was something that I had attempted multiple times and yet would always fail. The true key was with not trying. In not trying it was then that I could proclaim that I simply would allow the world to take me on a journey in the way that was planned by destiny; I could not allow myself to be further mentally flogged, bearing the blunt end of being any less the wiser.”
The can continued it’s journey downstream as it bobbled to the occasional stones that occupied its path.