The Water

By Cyril Joseph

We walked along the shores of the lake. The water wouldn’t rest, even when stillness was expected of it. The jittery surface amplified the turbulence in the air, and left us wanting for closure. More than we ever expected from ourselves, more than we were prepared to give, more than we could offer. So we waited on closure, knowing very well that we wouldn’t have any. But that’s how life goes, acceptance is not optional. You said nothing and neither did I, accepting that we would fall short. Too sparse for ourselves, let alone enough for each other, drastically deficient to be enough for the world.

We kept amounting to lesser, and asked less of each other as well as life. That wouldn’t seem like a bad thing you know. But it’s a fine line between growth and complacency, and boy had we crossed it. I waited for you to say something

, anything at all, underestimating the power of your silent smile. And just like that, everything was okay.

And so we walked, relying on the undertones for direction. We kept on going, chasing the next high in any form it chose. Like junkies, we craved the next episode, the next hit of disturbance that would hopefully leave us at peace. But the peace never came, and we kept chasing this rush of toxicity, the thrill of the unknown, the rush of turmoil. We welcomed everything that wouldn’t bore us, and swayed away from all that was dull.

Here is the thing though. When you ignore the baseline, hoping to transcend life itself, you neglect the point of it all. You’re left with experiences that don’t count

for much, not even to yourself. I’ll be the last person to vouch for mediocrity, but indulgence still leaves you wanting.

By Cyril Joseph