The Expedition

 

And as the poet navigated through the tempest seas, the waters drew clear light from the open skies. He could see the horizon gently drawing its silver lining in his sight.

The ship took a few twists and tumbles, but never nearly enough to fall, and each time he felt it shaking, he would rally all his power to steady it. He pulled his journal, calling on inspiration, as well as his muse. But the weather was dry on that day, and as the early eve settled in on him, he had not written down a single word.

Instead, he observed the dry tears filling up his pages, one by one. They had cried, and their tears were all that remained. And when they parted at sea’s shores, he had taken them with him, as they often transported him to a distant land, where they would reunite once more and live together forevermore.

The ship quaked under the moving sea, but the poet would remain firm. His eyesight was still, his vision imperturbable.

A winged creature cast its shadow over his head.

It was a dove, white as snow, soaring with all its might, touching the skies and gliding back over the ship’s head. The poet was bemused by it; was it a messenger? He asked foolishly. A sign of peace perhaps? But he could feel no perturbation ahead, and deemed the existence of the creature pointless.

Suddenly, the tide took a change in direction, and the ship started to sway. The poet was overtaken by the brutality of its movement, and fell down on his back, facing the skies. Up above him, still soaring mightily, was the snow-white dove. She carried a feather, pure as gold.

The poet felt anger in confusion. And just as he sunk into his thoughts in a bid to interpret what had just unfolded, he failed to notice a crack in his ship. The waters, deadly and merciless as they are, penetrated the crack and filled every space in the ship.

Powerless, the man could muster the strength to get himself back on his feet, but was it of any use at this point? He had always been realistic in his understanding of life, as it had turned him into a lucid thinker over the years. And that day, when faced with the most improbable of uncertainties, he knew that he couldn't fight it. It was a signal of intent, a wake-up call that life had inflicted on him after all these years he had gone claiming that he had figured every corner of it, and solved every one of its mysteries.

But in the end, he looked the truth in the face: life was bigger than him, and even he could not contain it. And on that day, as he lingered in the balance between life and death, he felt time had shifted and taken him back to the years where he had overpowered life and subdued its influence. Where had that man disappeared into? He questioned himself. And in a rare moment of realization, he pulled the blank journal, and felt it with both hands.

The tears had become warmer, more intense, as if they were fresh. How he longed for them, these times of misery they had spent together!

For these were the times that made him, these were the moments that helped him conquer life!

He had cried for misery, searching for it in the dark as a thirsty man longs for a drop of water in the desert.

The waters grew angrier and the ocean swallowed the sinking ship in what would have been a dreadful sign-off for the helpless poet. He looked once more to the heavens, only to recognize the flying dove, still tracking his movement, the feather in its beak.

He implored it to come to him and rescue him from the imminent abyss. But the dove seemed impervious to his cries, as if it were surrounded by some sort of field that could shut out the outside world. It carried a strange veil with it; and its mystical aura captivated him.

For so long now he had chosen to distance himself from the world, caring for none but his own, and dissenting the abilities that he had seen in others only to imprison his soul in a valley of contempt that had no open trail.

And as his hand sunk deeper into the ocean, his face was already facing its depth. It was dark, grim and mostly frightening. The poet suffocated, but he could not hear his suffering. Then, a piercing light broke the shadows. It was the feather that the dove was carrying.

It blinded the poet’s eyes open. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of it and felt at peace of himself. The conflicting voices inside his mind had suddenly vanished and he was in a state of transcendence, as if he was looking at the world into a magnifier.

The feather lifted his spirit, and incredibly, the poet rose to the skies, observing the final destruction of his ship. He grew silver wings, and soared above the world, traversing plains and oceans in what was a moment of spiritual enlightenment.

The dove had disappeared, and had carried its message with it, but the messenger remained. He hadn't conquered life �" he had surpassed it �" and as the tears on the ocean foam flickered brightly at night, he had become a living message to the weary travelers of life. 

The poet had reclaimed his body, the messenger his soul and his spirit shined brightly, transgressing every incoming tide, illuminating the path of those who claimed they had understood life, reminding them that perception was its greatest treasure, and if they would learn to hone it they too would become poets of the night.