The Stereotypical Wanderers

            I am dipping my toes in. I am testing the water. Is it warm or cold? It is lukewarm. It is a lake. It is deep, but only in the very middle. Walking in, it is shallow. Wading in, at a steady pace, it takes a while before it gets past my ankles. Once it does, the slope under my feet increases exponentially. Somehow I end up so deep in that the water level is just under my nose. I stand here for a while. How long am I standing here? How long have I been in this lake? Not long, but it feels like years. Years and years of knowing this lake. I know where it is. I know where it has been. I know how big it is. But I do not know how deep it is at its deepest. Does it get any deeper than this? I do not know what is in it. But I am standing there. I am standing there and I am singing the song of the whispering wind in my ears. I heard it, growing louder and louder, on the long trek here, to this lake.

            I am wandering. I am wandering although I already know where I fit in.

            There was a knock on the door. At first it was soft—almost like a tap. Then it became louder and more persistent. It thundered and rattled in my brain till I opened the door. We stood there and stared for a minute. I looked at the faded blue eyes. They looked into my eyes. Not blue. Brown, hazel. Whatever. I watched as the eyes flickered around and I heard the echo of my name ricocheting around the room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling and floor and windows and door a hundred thousand million billion times.

            And it worked.

            You were there and I was there.

            But  there was space between us. No matter how close we go, there was always space still between us.

            And there was no avoiding that.

            Whatever is in the lake starts nipping at my toes. I stand and let it happen long enough to get used to it. It is not a big deal. I am fine. Everything is—not okay. But only just long enough. It starts to hurt. The water, instead of caressing my body, starts to make me prune. And I do not like that. I slowly grow more and more uncomfortable. I try to tread further, deeper, into the water, but it just pushes me out further—closer to the shore. I step out. I realize I do not belong here like I thought I did. I curl up and lean against a rock. It hurts my back. I can not sleep, I have no reason to eat. I let the lake win.

            I heard a pen hit the floor. What was it? It was just a plain, black ball-point pen. Okay. So normal and simple. I could’ve easily ignored it. I should’ve ignored it. But I picked it up. I got a sort of thrill. A frenzy thrill. For the first time in two weeks, I was happy. Happy enough to live. Happy enough to breathe. Happy enough to try skipping rocks on the lake.

            It didn’t work.

            They sank.

            Something is attacking me. Everything is attacking me. I’m drowning, but I’ve dried off from the lake. Why am I in this forest? Why am I still next to this lake? Why am I awake? Why do I care? I should change my clothes and walk away with my dignity but—OWWHH! Oh, ow. No. That thing. . . . It’s killing me. No. I need to conjure what little pride I have left and—RUN. Hide the tears, wipe away the pain just long enough to get out of this cruel forest. It was so warm and welcoming for a time. I seriously thought I belonged. I was comfortable. Far away from civilization and responsibility. But I was wrong. And now I’m running. Not so fast and only far enough. Just far enough to break down. Stop and break down in the middle of a freeway like an old car.

            My toes were in, for a short time. They’re dry now. For so long I missed those treacherous waters. Then for even longer, I was happy to be on the land, to be dry. But now I’ve found the ocean. I’m fully immersing myself to get used to the cold. It’s refreshing. The heat and humidity battle the chilly water—the water wins. I’ve never like just jumping in. The air always won. Now it’s the water’s turn to win. Because this ocean needs me and I it.

            No more faded blue eyes. Only bright hazel.

            I can still see the forest in the distance. I know that lake is sitting on the other side. Sometimes I get close to it, but I will never go back. Those tall looming trees sway in the heavy winds. One fell a while ago, another looks like it is about to break, but I may never know whether it actually falls or if it simply gets cut down and taken away. Meanwhile, those woods will continue to taunt me for the rest of my life. But I will simply smile and wave politely from the distance of the ocean. Because I am happy, and those woods are whatever they are.