They're not there.
They are, but I can't touch them, I
think. If I look at them with my left eye, I can see that little
pile of rocks plain as day. My right eye insists they're not there
at all. The point they're out on is narrow, past easy reach. I'm
debating heavily whether or not to try to crawl out there when I find
myself doing just that.
I can tell because my thighs hurt and
my back is starting to tremble. Not far enough out, though. Maybe
another half a body length before I can reach them, find out just how
far gone I am.
Of course, I'm wrapped around a
surprisingly slender finger of stone, hanging over a foggy abyss that
I don't know the nature of, reaching for a small pile of rocks just
to make sure they're there. I am beginning to suspect that the trees
were right about me.
Inch. Inch. Inch. I go out farther
than I really need to. Probably because I'm afraid they're there.
I'm afraid they aren't there. I'm afraid I'm here. I'm afraid I'm
not here and will never know which it might be.
My right hand says there are stones
there. Or at least one. Complicated in shape, much higher than the
little pile I can sort of see. Solid, too, not a pile, more like a
carving, a tower here on the end of this island.
My left hand says it is a small pile,
but not stones. Soft, almost, many of them, more than I can see, and
larger. Wood, maybe, or something else. I can't seem to get into a
position where I can really look at it properly. Not sure I want to.
I can feel it before it happens, and
solve the problem of getting back to solid ground in some way. As
the stone cracks and the finger of stone falls away, I am just back
on the island, bleeding, breathing heavily, watching this little
mystery fall away into the fog.
What? What was that? What is this
now?
I can't think of anything to do but
stand here, watch the fog, feel the blood dripping down my leg, and
be confused.
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