At 5 a.m., having brilliantly failed at achieving a state of slumber, a picture came to my mind, of the surface of seas, hiding various life histories and dramas below, represented by various striking images. I wish I could paint so I could draw this series, I don't think my words are doing it justice, but I can't, so I wrote it as best I could.
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The surface is clear, beautiful even. Calm and peaceful. Serene, reflecting the brilliant blue sky, the sea gulls soaring above. Perfect.
But look from a particular angle, and you will see through the surface. Down below, things aren't clear or calm, not peaceful, not serene. Anything but perfect. Down below you will not see the blue of the free sky, but the grey of a man's raised hand, the black of a woman's bowed head. You will see scared eyes peeking from behind a curtain, staring longingly at the open door. Freedom, a few footsteps away, a few lifetimes away.
Another sea, another surface. Dark, this time, reflecting innumerable shining stars. Breathtaking.
How many of those stars are dead, in the time the light has taken to reach this surface? How many blinked out, unable to take their own weight?
Under the surface, the punctures will not be the bright of stars in a black sky. No, the punctures will show other colours. The dark of grime, the crimson of despair. What colour is hopelessness? Red blood, slicing across a wrist, an ankle, a thigh, a throat.
How many of those stars are dead, in the time the light has taken to reach this surface? How many blinked out, unable to take their own weight?
Under the surface, the punctures will not be the bright of stars in a black sky. No, the punctures will show other colours. The dark of grime, the crimson of despair. What colour is hopelessness? Red blood, slicing across a wrist, an ankle, a thigh, a throat.
Another day, another sea, roiling in the storm. Waves so high you cannot look through. Daunting, brave, indomitable. Stunning.
Perhaps not so below. It is calm below, calm and quiet. An undisturbed room, a made bed, a neat closet. A house not a home, pervaded only by silence. The silence of searching eyes, searching, searching, for a way out. Not all exits are blaring signs, looking to be found. Not all doors can just be walked out of. A silence of suppression, borne of years of quiet fortitude and hardening soul. A silence stunning like a slap across a bruised face.
Perhaps not so below. It is calm below, calm and quiet. An undisturbed room, a made bed, a neat closet. A house not a home, pervaded only by silence. The silence of searching eyes, searching, searching, for a way out. Not all exits are blaring signs, looking to be found. Not all doors can just be walked out of. A silence of suppression, borne of years of quiet fortitude and hardening soul. A silence stunning like a slap across a bruised face.
Another dark sea, but lit bright underneath. Shining auditorium lights, brightening jeering faces, echoing harsh laughter.
A pale blue ocean, glinting with beautiful coral. Coral, which is mere decoration on armour, built of years of smiling at the face you want to punch, standing when you want to cower, of unsought battles fought with trembling, hardening fear.
A sea glinting, dancing, silver as a mermaid's tail; a surface only thinly covering the screams renting the air, the hand forcing legs apart. The tears squeezed from shut eyes, the nails tearing the thick skin on scarred palms, the memories relived.
Dull grey water, but what brilliance below. The shingled sea-fish swimming astray, the weeds waving in glee. A stingray, bemused smile permanent on its face; a jolly dolphin passing through.
Green, frolicking, choppy waves, pushing against a cliff; a dancer's soul beneath, legs poised, body prepared, arms high for a battle of ballet.
What is below your surface?
~Sam
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