I haven't posted anything serious on my page yet. I write for fun and I write to vent, but there are times when I write in order 'to exorcise,' as Mr. King would say. This is one of those moments.



It is night, and I find myself standing at the edge of the retaining wall overlooking the bay. I pull the edges of my cloak tighter. The air is chill and taught, chilling my cold blood and turning it sluggish. The wind smells of the sea as it blows across my snout. I know I must leave before my heart slows further, but I am enthralled by the sights before me and the thoughts they elicit.

The ancient Spanish fort that once stood sentinel over the mouth of the bay lies to my left, further north up the coast. When one looks upon it’s shadowed bulk, it is easy for one to imagine it to be a massive beast of burden that had stopped by the water to rest and slipped unknowing into an eternal slumber. It’s rocky hide shows the weathering of the centuries, and bears the scars of battles long ago forgotten.

To my right and further to the south, it’s companion bridge arches out over the water. If the fort is a slumbering behemoth, the bridge is an ancient leviathan still struggling for breath. Travelers cross it’s back daily, east to the island or west to the mainland. Though the fort is no more than a monument to a past much more bloody than the current era, and thus allowed to sleep, the bridge is still needed to this day and thus has not been allowed to die. It groans in pain whenever it is split in half to allow taller ships to pass beneath. Tonight, it lies silent, catching it’s breath before the day brings it’s daily dearth of traveling locals.

Behind me lies St. Augustine. I glance over my shoulder and pass the hidden bulk of my wings at it’s light and life. Like the fort, the town has sat here on the edge of the sea for centuries. They say it is the oldest continuously-inhabited city in the country. When one walks it’s streets, it is easy to believe. Modern storefronts grace the facades of buildings that have been refurbished and reinforced time and time again. Diesel-driven street sweepers bathe cobblestone roads that blend gracelessly into recently-repaved asphalt streets. Steeples of churches that have remained in service for centuries stab skyward, fighting to compete with the height of the younger, yet still older hotels and office buildings.

I turn back to the sea and readjust my cloak once more. The wind twines around my horns and whispers through my spines. It chills my scales, much like it chills the steel of the old chain fence lining the retaining wall upon which I stand. Though cold, I cannot resist this view. I have not seen it in years. I have traveled far since I had lived here. Traveled far and learned much. Learned much, and not forgotten enough.

It is no trouble to look to the empty space at my right side and imagine a younger version of myself, a mental ghost of the person I once was. Standing there, looking over the same scene that I behold now, his head swimming with cloudy delusions of the world he lives in. Looking at myself in such a way, in this detached manner, I cannot stop myself from smiling a sad smile. So innocent, so blinded from the truth, so unwilling to let anyone pull the wool from his eyes. When viewing my past self from this distance, despair shifts to understanding, to acceptance, and finally, to wisdom.

I had not been forced into the decisions I had made. Though the options that had been presented had not been done so in good faith, I had chosen them of my own accord. I had wanted to belong, to be greater than I was, to be needed. Who among us does not crave those things? I made the wrong choices, in those days. I searched for the means to satisfy my need to belong in all the wrong places. I followed the people who pretended they loved me and had practice at faking it, and ignored the people who loved me honestly despite not knowing how to show it.

I looked down at the image of myself, shimmering lightly in the haze of imagination and memory. I looked down at him, and as that bright, boyish face turned up towards mine and gave me a shameless, innocent smile, I realized I didn’t blame him. As his smile faltered, and he looked off into the night towards some other, darker ghost of memory, I realized I didn’t blame the others either. Not him. Not his friends, false and true. Not his father or his mother, not his grandfather. Not the world, not his gods or his devils or lack thereof.

You can’t blame life for happening. You can’t blame existence for existing. And you can’t blame people for doing what it is in their nature to do, any more than you can blame the wind for blowing.

The shadow image of past-me pulled his coat a little closer to himself, pulled a cigarette from an inner pocket, and lifted a wing to block the wind. Silver feathers, dark in hue but bright in luster, ruffled in the breeze. A lighter sparked and lit his face previously hidden in shadow, and the harsh light gave evidence to dark circles under his eyes and lines creasing his brow. He tucked his wings behind him, tugged that ridiculous black beanie hat with the brim further down over his face, and left me standing there alone. Truly alone, for the past is dead. Dead, buried, and perhaps beginning to rest easily in it’s grave.

I turned back to the sea, and a subtle motion to my left catches my eye. I turn, and see…

Nothing. But I feel something there. A presence of some kind. I cannot guess at it’s nature, but I can sense a single emotion. A single vibe, solid as the constant hum of a sound wave deep in pitch.

All of the depth and range of emotion, speculation and understanding I had felt towards the mind’s-eye image of my past self was now being directed at me, from somewhere beyond the vast, incomprehensible one-way mirror that is the fourth dimension; Time.