A Life Never Late

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


Submitted: June 20, 2018

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Submitted: June 20, 2018



I strayed from the breadth of ages. My sore suit and charcoal tie dreamt of a final beckoning. I sat afar, for eons, as I had always, with restlessness whilst in my own abode. Between the crows and Her, restlessness glided through my world, never to be seen. But on lonely evenings, the shaded glass of my lighthouse domed me, trapping all colour and charm. She was beautiful, she was innocent, she was young, and so were we. Yet when the crows cawed, I watched her go.


“Hold on” they say. To that, I storm another misery each day, raging against the nights. I sit with clenched fists and jaw, no matter how melodic the light-honeyed rains are, swooning onto my window sills. I wait and I tarry. For in days gone by, with endless virtue, her love had led me through the night. When farewells came to be, never was I told of how swift with strength, my walls would grow.


And so I am devoid. But still I watch. Surrounding the lighthouse, congregations of sanguine crows meet for unity’s sake. This morning, I watch as they mount desolate strips of driftwood. In droves and swarms, they swim the skies, in search of plunder. There is none to be found, however, no aggrandizing piles of scraps being sought after. I watched on the daily as wandering crows merely stayed and survived, as they simply could. Even in these shores that bear no fruit, that bid no fortune, the crows hold on, mocking our stark earth with dogged fortitude.


I watch the crows turn and swivel in the air as they search for unsalted waters. So frantic yet classic is their will to live on. Some dive with screeching swiftness towards any muddy land, yearning for moisture. Some skim rows and rows of dew-blessed rolling hills. Others tap madly at my window, as they discovered my eye-melting ice water. Alike barbarians, they rush for my liquid haven. There is one of the dark scavengers, however, that knows of clever salvation. It reached with sheer ferocity into the towering seas and retrieved with its pristine beak, bottled water. Its beak, broad and unwieldy, could not dip into the bottle. The crystal element in the bottle and the crying beak, an evolutionary mismatch to be sure. Yet from the crow, sprouted an idea.


First it glanced at the pebbles at shore, then with a fell swoop, it gobbled them up in the dozens. It sputtered them into the bottle, and low and behold, the serene waters rose. With that, the crow carries on. With little purpose in a rivalling world, it thrives. And so shall I. I step from my lighthouse, my search has finished. Love imbued, I walk on with pride. Though each day gone by, Her memory fades. Should her kiss forever stay, life shall be my duty.


© Copyright 2018 Ocean Tsai. All rights reserved.

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