The Bridge to Trust

Dead End; all of my travels had come to an end in the worst of ways.  Perhaps 'travel' is not the right word, but rather 'meander'.  If all things travel, no… meander, the path of least resistance, why don’t we all converge?  I had, like a river, always taken the easiest route on my journey--choosing the valley over the mountain.  But my meandering had led me to an endless chasm.

 

It stretched out before me, consuming the horizon.  There was no other-side to gaze upon; it was a destination which relied only on the faith and hope that such a pit must eventually end.   Looking down, the chasm seemed as deep as it was vast; who knew which was further, the bottom or the other side?  How long had it taken the Spaniards to cross the great ocean?  Thousands of years; thinking it impossible.  Surely this chasm was every bit the obstacle as that ocean.  But I was not a civilization, I was a man; no man lives a thousand years.  Such an obstacle could never be overcome in a mere lifetime; it was impossible for me.  Sighing deeply, I contemplated as to where I must go next; with the chasm spreading forth in all directions, there was no path of least resistance, besides casting myself into the endless pit before me.

 

Should I turn around?  Return the way I had come, and seek another route?  It made sense, but I knew that I could never do it.  There was no reason; there was just the knowledge that I was incapable of retracing my steps.  Instead, I would try and go around this chasm.  Right or left?  Both directions could hold vastly different futures within them--or perhaps the same?  Choosing the simplest route had led me here; I had best choose the route which seemed the most difficult.  But casting my head both ways, it all seemed the same.  I had to make the right choice; my journey depended upon it.  The right choice… left it was.  Turning to my left, I began to travel along the edge of the chasm; endless darkness to my right, wasteland to my left.

 

I walked like this, entranced by the gulf beside me, for an amount of time I couldn’t fathom.  After all, the horizon is endless, how can a person know how far he has come?  How far he must go?  As you walk, you try to ignore such thoughts--of how impossible to understand your goal must be--but by ignoring them, you give such thoughts life.  Once brought to life, these thoughts will plague you eternally.  I was wondering if this journey could end anywhere besides the chasm, when I spotted what almost seemed to be a thin shiny thread, like a spider’s, stretching across the horizon.  Thoughts of what it might be filled my head, much like the hope that flooded my heart.  Suddenly, with something to look towards, I felt purpose in my step.  Eagerly, I focused my will upon reaching the distant thread.

 

As I drew close, I began to realize that the thing which had seemed so frail from so far away, was in fact a colossal feat of engineering, the likes of which I could never have envisioned.  It was a massive bridge, seeming to dwarf the mountains themselves.  But unlike the mountains, this was built out of the most lustrous of crystals.  The entire bridge seemed to glow, illuminating the way across this chasm which I thought no man could ever cross.  I simply stared--so captivated, so filled with awe.  Would I ever again be able to feel such majesty once I had departed this side for the next?  Not only did the pillars of the bridge extend almost to the heavens, but the level of detail in its craftsmanship seemed impossible.  Who could have built such a bridge?  Who would even consider such manner of engraving on a colossal project like this?  Surely, entire civilizations would be incapable of such a feat.

 

Staring for hours, I pondered the hands which had crafted this art, the art which would be my path.  But despite its majesty, the time for reflection had to pass; I would not be Narcissus, consumed in an image.  With cautious steps, I began to cross the bridge.  But I had scarce taken more than a few steps before a voice, which felt as ancient as the earth itself, bellowed out for me to stop.  Startled, I turned about, and saw a man so old that my prior thoughts of man never living a thousand years seemed absurd.

“I would not set foot on that bridge, if I were you”, said the man.  His voice was frail, yet powerful with age.

 

To not set foot on the bridge?  How would I then ever finish this journey?  I stared at the man for a while, minutes perhaps?  I tried to think of how I could explain my need for this bridge; how I, a mere man, could never cross such a gulf without it.  Yet, as the thoughts to explain such a need entered my mind, they were quickly pushed aside by questions of who and what the man might be--curiosity is so distracting.  I finally collected myself and apologized, “I’m terribly sorry, but I must reach the other side; there are no ways for me to cross this chasm otherwise.  For, after all, I am but a man.”

 

The old man chuckled before gesturing farther down the path, “No other ways to cross, you say?”

 

My gaze followed the man’s gesture, and looking farther into the distance, I saw what had to be dozens, perhaps hundreds, of similar bridges.  'Similar ' may not be the right word.  They were all similarly majestic, each defying my comprehension.  But the similarities ended there, for each was drastically different from the others.  I felt the strongest compulsion to travel further down the way, to take in each bridge’s overwhelming majesty.  If looking at this bridge made me feel like Narcissus, the horizon filled with so many amazing works of art made me feel like Narcissus in a room filled with hundreds of mirrors, reflecting and refracting my image in every way.  With hesitating steps, I began to approach the next bridge, but again, after I had barely taken a step, the man likewise said, “I would not set foot on that bridge if I were you.”

 

Frustration swept across me; why was it so wrong for me to use a bridge?  I snapped at the old man, “Why not?  Why not use these bridges?”  Are not bridges to be used?

 

The man did not show any concern for my angry outburst, instead he mused, “How can you trust them to hold up your weight?  Surely you would fall into the chasm below.”  His voice conveyed a certainty of this inevitability.

 

The man’s response startled me, how could such amazing bridges not hold up the weight of a single man?  After all, could not the work of many men hold a single man?  I paused for a moment, contemplating what I should ask... why the bridges wouldn’t support me, why should I not trust them, what other choice did I have?  In the end I settled with a simple question, “Who built these?”  Should not the integrity of the men determine the integrity of their craft?

 

The man stood there for a moment, staring out at the bridges before muttering, as much to himself as to I, “I did.”

 

I couldn’t believe such a thing; without thinking, I burst out, “By yourself?”  My skepticism a toxin, lacing each word.

 

The man again seemed indifferent to my harsh incredulity, “Yes, all these bridges; built by these hands alone.”

 

How a single man built these many bridges, I had no idea.  To say that the man was old seemed too weak a word.  Perhaps ancient, but even that seems too weak; for surely he had been building these bridges before the chasm had even existed.

 

“How many?” I managed to weakly ask, still trying to wrap my mind around what a feat it was to have built even one of these bridges.

 

The man sighed and shrugged, “Many... I cannot remember just how many.  But it is many.  I always put so much effort into them, yet they never feel right.  I’m scared to set forth across them to the other side.”  With a chuckle the man added, “A bridge builder... we build bridges, not cross them.”

 

I stood there for a moment, trying to think.  Should I cross the bridge?  I couldn’t see a reason that it wouldn’t bear my weight, but at the same time…  I was no builder of bridges, perhaps the man knew something I did not; some small flaw which I could neither see nor understand, but ultimately, would be the death of me.  Gazing out across the abyss I resigned, “I don’t really have a choice then do I?”

 

Behind me the man swore angrily, screaming abnormally loud for one whose lungs should already be decaying within the ground, “Why can’t I do it, why can’t I do it!?”  His screams sent a shiver up my spine.  The man had appeared as peaceful and serene as he appeared aged, like the rolling hills themselves.  Yet with such an unexpected outburst, I felt as though I was staring into the thunderhead of an impending storm.  How could something so serene contain such malice, did I simply not understand the nature of the rolling hills?  The ancient man finally grew silent, and brooding, began to walk the way I had just come.  Muttering to himself, he mournfully mused, “No other choice but to start anew.”  He suddenly stopped in his tracks and looking across the chasm, snarled once more, “How ugly!  Uncouth!  This is no bridge at all!”  

 

I followed his gaze, and sure enough, there was a bridge already there, spanning the chasm, its rickety wooden beams seeming to fade off into the darkness.  I had walked right past it, how had I missed it?  Looking to my left again, I saw the giant crystal pillars of the nearby bridge rise to the heavens.  I must have been too focused on the beauty and majesty of the bridge to notice a mere wood and rope bridge.  I couldn’t help but be perplexed by the man’s anger, and the words seemed to flow out all on their own, “If it disgusts you so, why not tear it down?”

 

Giving the dilapidated bridge a scathing glare the old man mourned, “How I wish I could unmake you, but a bridge builder I am.”  Then turning to me, with a disgruntled gesture of his hand he asked, “Could you not do me a favor, and remove this unsavory thing?  It is unpleasant to look at; who would cross this... thing?  I would do it myself, but it is not the place of a bridge builder.  In the end, it is another’s choice.”  Then turning, the man left me standing alone near the edge.

 

The old man stormed away from the dilapidated bridge.  He walked a ways before stopping yet again, and sitting down.  Perhaps he was envisioning his next bridge?  I considered the bridge before me.  It seemed so unstable, so unsafe... and certainly it was no masterpiece.  It was a mere bridge.  But perhaps a mere bridge was perfect for a mere man?  I looked at the larger, more majestic bridges to my left, but they no longer seemed so much like bridges--only mere pieces of art.  How could I trust a bridge which its builder couldn’t trust?  Seizing a rope on the bridge, I tugged it, and the bridge swayed.  I felt a smile creep across my face; I must take the difficult way, yes?  By taking the difficult route, the one that no one would consider… it is the way that man can distinguish himself from the rest.  Besides, even without taking the difficult path, the whole world still never converges.

 

I stepped onto the rickety bridge, uncertain of what awaited me; but my mind was set.  With each step, my faith in the seemingly unreliable bridge grew.  Looking back I could see the ancient man on the edge, staring off into the distance.  He was not watching my progress.  He didn’t seem to care if I ever reached the other side, if the bridge could carry him unharmed.  He was absorbed in simply building a bridge.  I felt a pang of sadness as I remembered that Narcissus had not been consumed by the beauty of others, the beauty of their creations, the beauty of the world.  No, Narcissus had been consumed by himself.  Turning back around, leaving the old man to his obsession, I continued my way across the bridge.

 

I walked for what felt like hours, before I realized that the bridge had changed, no longer was it a rickety rope and wooden plank bridge, but now it was built of sturdy oak--simple yet masterfully built.  The change was sudden, and with a gradual realization I realized that this bridge was actually two separate bridges, joined as one.  Casting my eyes to the left, I spied the ancient crystal bridges end, not on the opposing bank, but rather straight into the chasm.  By itself, it was a single bridge, no… a single piece of useless narcissistic art; an icon of ego.  How can something which never bridges, be called a bridge?  

 

Looking forward I pushed forward, my journey was not yet over.  With only a fleeting thought, I left the other side; I left the ancient man who for all I know would perpetually be consumed with doubt and obsession.  I left my own uncertainty, and as a mere man, I was grateful that someone, whoever they might be, had built a bridge which could be crossed, no matter how meager.

 

It could be crossed, no matter how meager.

 

Reviews

[roarke]

Nusquam, this is your strongest story yet. I like old adages, and this fits right in. "Don't cross a bridge until you come to it", "Don't burn any bridges", etc. I like how you incorporated a connection of generations with in your story. I'd start this writing at the point your narrator begins to cross a bridge, as the beginning of this story is very philosophical and might confuse some readers.
This piece takes place directly in the "now" which is hard to sculpt. I like how the character starts out on a bridge and later the bridge transforms, very much like life. The surrealistic imagery of the bridges is great. I might include something about how the bridge crosser evolves into a bridge builder.
Again, a strong, conceptual story and a strong message for the reader. Well done.

[heiots]

I had frissons. Sudden enlightenment, if I were to be dramatic. It brought to light what had been hidden, intentional or not on my end, for so long. That old man. Narcissus, consumed by creating a 'single piece of useless narcissistic art; an icon of ego'. How often we are obsessed, suffering from tunnel vision, that we forget the purpose of why we do what we do.

[RP Mazarelli]

Writing that makes you think ... literary, and disquieting.

The passage I like the most in this piece is ...

The man sighed and shrugged, “Many... I cannot remember just how many. But it is many. I always put so much effort into them, yet they never feel right. I am scared to set forth across them to the other side.” With a chuckle the man adds, “A bridge builder... we build bridges, not cross them.”

... we build bridges, not cross them. I can't help but to keep pondering those words.

[SkinlessFrank]

This is a strong allegory, made so by the interplay of the surreal imagery and self-dialog. It is a meditative piece that made me think about my own life and the imaginary obstacles I have placed before myself, as well as the craft that I have sometimes overlooked in my prejudice. I think it could be streamlined in places to read more swiftly and effectively, perhaps by rethinking the main messages that you wish to convey.

[ZeniaK]

" I had, like a river, always taken the easiest route on my journey--choosing the valley over the mountain. " This line stuck out to me from the very beginning, because I thought to myself, "with a valley or a mountain, you still have to make the upward climb." but that was just my random philosophical side kicking in (or whatever). So many metaphors in your story! You have the ability to make a story flow, like it all fits right together and it all seems like it is extremely well put together.