The Lighthouse

Be water, my friend… Tuning out the past, tuning into self

Transistor-thin sounds skittle through my brain. Jingly, looping — like the last message from a satellite rolling through the void, pulsing from a gap between realities where I’m alone with the ghosts of dead friendships.

Something shifts. A shiver, a ripple through dimensions. Music flows in and towers up, pearly like seagull’s underbelly, solid like a lighthouse. From within — a sound of light, yellow-white and surging forth, slitting the curtains of the darkness open. The lighthouse beacons out its reason to exist, moaning as though every beam hurts. I know the feeling. I do.

The light slides over the skin of the ocean, like a long and rusty snake, fans out in the distance and sinks into unfathomable depths. Bronze shimmers in its wake. The water is on fire; embers glow, skimming away to the right until darkness is restored. Silence too.

The radio’s inside. Rolling through frequencies, searching for sound-waves of past lives — the '50s, the '20s. Choirs sing hymns and odes. Strings melt out and weep their longing. Sentimental, soulful melodies drift over the sand like long-haired sirens, hoping someone will hear them. Someone will tune in.

The light has called for life. Whale songs echo through the vastness. Fish flash scales in Morse code dots and dashes. I’m in the middle of this no-where land with no-time dimension, waiting for a sign. A direction.

And then I see them. Riding. Born of sea and wind and wailing. Silver breastplates and smith-carved shields, magnificent on their wild-eyed horses, they loom closer, lit by loud and golden light. Shining armour and flashing hooves, they storm past me, etching a trail of unmistakable messages. Vibrations rise and shape the air, alive with power seeking escape. The power finds me, flows into me. Makes me invincible.

The radio tunes back to memories. In the ink-blue of past lives, lonely ghosts attempt a last dance. Touches freeze from cosmic cold, glances slip off ruined faces. The tango collapses over dusty violas and sobs — disheartened and spent.

In the wake of the riders — a new light. Glowing, growing, shedding off the salty fuzziness of ocean mist. It’s a fire; a woman sits there, hugging her knees and gently swaying to the rhythm of my pulse. I know her. I do.

I take a step. Another. Then I run. It’s where I’ve been heading all this time.

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Photo by Joshua Hibbert on Unsplash

Entirey inspired by Be Water, My Friend from the album Dehab Days by Rob Luft