I’m anchored mostly to my pier. One made of weather-worn planks aged 36 years and a little more. I think I hear it creaking these days. It’s not a pretty pier, studded with barnacles and wrapped by strands of watery undergrowth, but it’s my own private dock, shaped from my own hands. I’ve forgotten what wood I used, but I think it sturdy enough to last another 36 years in the least.
But these days, I’ve been venturing out on this boat of mine. It’s an odd little vessel, both clumsy yet quaint. It seems safe for one, yet seems to suggest there might be space for another. The way it wobbles innocently, like an eager child wanting my attention, amuses me… and beckons me. It promises reprieve from my standard view at the dock. So one day I took it.
So I would release the string that tethers me to the safety of my dock. And as I drift further, thin rope unravelling between my fingers, I dissolve into the fog. A quiet descends. The atmospheric sounds disappear. And it’s like a cloudy space of peace and possibilities. Time becomes wisps and my mind sees patterns and memories in the rolling mists. But somehow, time seems to pass strangely in this world away. Night descends quickly like an impatient hungry guest, and I start to fear this coupling of fog and gloom.
So I pull on the string that brings me back to shore. And though it seems like an eternity and a heartbeat more, I bump back to the rickety pier and clamber back on.
Days would come when I would set myself adrift, and nights would come to usher me back. But the days are getting shorter, and the nights are long.
One day I think I will learn to not fear the void, and in a moment where bravery and stupidity are one, I will cut myself loose and drift away, making my memories my anchor and my faith my rudder.
MORGAN AWYONG 