I used to be a poet. Not a particularly well-known poet with a large audience whose works would fill the masses’ hearts with emotion—no, none of that. I was more of an amateur, in the sense that I wrote poetry as a hobby. However, unlike most aspiring writers who strive to show off their works to whoever they can, I have been perfectly content with keeping my poems a secret all my life. That alone was enough enjoyment for me.
I do not mean to give the impression that I did not wish to share any of my works. I feel as though it is a natural desire to want to share things you are proud of. I was not thwarted by the fear of having someone ridicule my work, or any of the anxieties that can come with putting yourself into the minds of other people. None of that—instead, I am perfectly content with me and me alone as the observer of my works. I write out of passion—there are not many times in which I will deliberately fret over one of my works and worry about coherence or spelling or style. I write free of worry, and when inspiration strikes me, I write.
You might wonder: “Well, why does any of this matter? What does it matter to me if you’re this, that, and the other?” Well, you’ll find that this is all very important for the story I am about to tell you. Do not fret—this is not a life tale of any kind—my life is too uninteresting for such a biography. However, I want to tell you why I no longer write poetry. After I am done writing this, I will hide this notebook (in which I am writing) in my drawer and hope that, after my soon passing, someone will find it and take the time to read it. I will also be burning all of the poems that I have ever dared to create, which I have piled in a corner of my room. I sit adjacent to them as I write.
I was sitting on a bench in a poor district of my city one evening, perhaps a month ago. There was no melancholy or self-destructive reasoning—I have always enjoyed sitting on benches in silence—sometimes I would nap. I was there for a different reason that evening, though. I was hoping to find some inspiration, for I hadn’t written a poem for perhaps two months. It was starting to itch at me, and the more I thought about this fact, the more it disturbed me. Understand, I had been writing my secretive poetry for more than twenty years at the time, and it had become so ingrained in my being that if I were to be suddenly stripped of it, there is a high possibility that I could die. Now, you may wonder—“Well, if this poetry of yours is such an integral part of you—then how could you possibly forsake it now?”
Let it be reiterated that I have already stated that without my poetry there is a probability I’ll die, and that continues to be the case as I write this. Secondly, if you were me, and had experienced what I had experienced, you would be in such a state of peril that you would have no choice but to do the same as I have.
Anyhow, the idea of not creating poetry for an extended period of time weighed heavily on my mind, and as I sat on the bench by this riverbank—notebook in my hand—I pondered on what kind of poem I would write. It was a dreary evening, and the clouds overhead were dark with an intent to rain. The air was thick and humid, and the depressing nature of the day weighed heavily on the people. Few people were out that evening, so you would imagine my surprise when someone suddenly sat by my side. I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t notice them approach, and their unexpected appearance gave me a start. I looked over and was met with a mature woman.
“Sorry…” she began, meeting my eyes with hers. Her pupils seemed to flutter as though she were troubled, and her bottom lip quivered as she spoke. Though her features were soft, her skin was dense and worn, and her hair blew wildly in the evening wind—spreading her scent of peppermint. She wore plain office clothes that were tight around her figure, and her discomfort was apparent as she shuffled around. “I won’t stay long. I just want to relax for a bit…”
“…It’s fine,” I replied. At this point, my focus was ruined, and my mood had dropped a fair amount. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to simply go home, but I decided that I would stay for a bit longer so as not to appear disturbed by her presence.
She looked at me a bit longer, then at my notebook. “Are you an artist?” she asked, returning her attention to the river. “Ah… the waves are quite the sight today. I suppose it would make good art. I’m not much of an artist myself, so I wouldn’t be able to understand—”
I quickly decided that I needed to reply in order to stop her from yammering on. “I am not an artist. I am trying to write a poem.”
Her eyes widened at my statement; it was as though I had said something absolutely terrible. I myself was quite disturbed by her reaction and wondered if I should leave. There was a deep silence between us, and she stayed wide-eyed for a full minute before I decided to stand and prepare to leave. Just then, she grabbed my sleeve. It startled me to such an extent that I couldn’t help but quickly pull my arm away, and now the two of us looked at each other with immense bewilderment. Her lips quivered, and she cleared her throat.
“I…” she began, bringing her hands back to her lap. “I have always been a fan of poetry… When I was younger, I used to read a lot of it. He… I remember my parents being so upset! They’d be pressured by persistent little me to buy new editions and collections almost every week… I’m well grown now, ha… So, I’m not as invested as I used to be… I have so many things occupying my life as of right now…”
I noticed that the air around the woman had changed. She seemed unbelievably sad. Now—as much of a poet as I am—I am not particularly sympathetic. That does not mean I am cruel; I did indeed feel somewhat sorry for the lady. However, this situation was too much for me to handle, and I inevitably ended up leaving.
The story does not end there. Surprisingly, despite how traumatizing the events may have been, the experience had awakened a poem from my brain and into existence. I thought of it that night as I lay in bed, and I soon solemnly determined that I would return to that same bench tomorrow in order to draw out my idea in full. Of course, I planned on going there at a later time. I hoped that I could avoid the woman that I saw yesterday, and I showed up at the dark hour of ten. It was quiet, and there was a cool breeze in the air. As I had expected, there were hardly any people there—let alone the woman I was most afraid of. Being reassured, I sat down and began to write.
An hour passed, and before long I was done. I looked upon my notebook with a great sense of euphoria and was proud of my work when I was startled with a hand on my shoulder. Before I could even turn around, I heard the words: “Wow…! Is that your poetry?”
I recognized the voice immediately. It was the woman from yesterday. Somehow, she had managed to track me down, and my fear must have been very apparent in my eyes as she quickly backed away and rushed over to my side and sat herself down.
“I-I’m sorry for startling you…” she said with sympathy. You could also tell from her voice that snippets of excitement were still present, and this realization came to deeply disturb me. However, I was so shocked by the situation that I found myself unable to move.
“I… I have a request!” she announced with timid vigor. “Please—I’ll pay you if I have to! I don’t have much! Not the point! Not the point! I want to ask—I beg! Just let me read it! Before you noticed me, I was able to see the elegance of your words! And the beautiful flow of your prose! It was all so astounding… If you can let me have this! Just this! It would make my entire life!”
I was appalled at this declaration, and it only filled me with more dread. I looked at her a long while, that girl. In her eyes I saw something I had not seen in her before. It was a sort of childlike wonder and sparkle that seemed to intoxicate me and cloud my decisions. In that moment—now that I am able to reflect—I am certain that if I had simply turned to leave, maybe even run away, the outcomes of our lives would have been much different, and much better, might I add. More will be explained later.
If it was not obvious, that was not the path I chose. With my emotionally wounded heart (common of a poet), I had decided against all reason and handed her that dastardly notebook. Her face lit up with childlike wonder, and with a big huff she said, “Thank you! Thank you! So much! This is all I’ve wanted! It’s been so long… so long since I last read poetry! Oh, you have no idea what kind of happiness this brings to me! Well, if you don’t mind…”
She eagerly began reading. For the sake of understanding, I will share with you the exact poem that she had read. It is short, and it will better help you understand the events of this story. It goes as follows…
“How I’ve come to grow fond of you; the passage of time.
With each second I feel my life degrade, and each minute feel as death itself.
I watch other things before me to succumb to you, and I wonder how they do it so easily?
Without a care in the world for anything—no matter the circumstance—the corpse remains happy.
So, tell me, Time. What is my purpose here?
Will my corpse be as happy as others? Or will you drug me the moment before my death?
I look at my fingers and see age, though I do not remember using them for anything meaningful.
If you drug me as you might do others, I hope you let me experience this thrill for just a second. If you are as kind and merciful as you are glorified—then I ask for a minute.
My breath grows heavy with each step I walk. I am growing tired, yet I do not remember exerting myself with purpose.
Perhaps you are merciful after all.”
As she was reading the above, I couldn’t help shaking. Let it be restated that up until this point, I had not even begun to think about sharing my works with anyone. So naturally this scenario was all very frightening, though I could not possibly tell you as to why I was frightened. It was so unnerving that I couldn’t even stand to look at her, and settled on keeping my head glued to my feet as I listened to her breathing accelerate and decelerate in those short three minutes. Occasionally would she whimper quietly, and that only increased my anxiety. Soon enough would she quietly hand me back the notebook, and I slowly drew my gaze into her eyes. They were glossy.
“That was amazing…” she muttered, blinking rapidly. “You’re… an amazing poet! Truly amazing… I… don’t know what to feel right now… ha-ha… hey, what’s… would you mind… telling me your name…?”
Her change in demeanor greatly disturbed me, and with bated breath did I whisper my name. “…Erick,” I said, with each syllable causing a drop of sweat to roll down my face. As I said my name, the woman’s face contorted—it wasn’t some nasty expression of disapproval or anything of the sort—it was the face of a sort of euphoria that made her smile become wide and gummy and her eyes seem to turn upward. I was growing uncomfortable to a point of internal pain, and yet no part of me could find the courage to up and leave as I did last time.
“…Erick, huh…” she sighed, and with shaky legs she stood from the bench, looking down on me with quivering lips. “My… my name is… Lilly! It’s Lilly!” she exclaimed, and not a moment later did she suddenly run away. I did not get up from the bench in order to see where she had escaped to or anything of the sort; I simply continued to sit at that bench—notebook in hand—and stared directly at the spot where I had last looked her in the eyes for fifteen minutes. It is not very exciting, but I do not remember exactly what went through my head in those moments. All I can tell you is that I was very unsettled, and after I had finally decided to go home, I did nothing for the next few days but lay in my bed and have very vivid nightmares. Eventually, I was able to return to my way of life, and in that time another idea for a poem had struck me.
Now, let me explain the following events quickly. Soon I will tell you how I went to the side of the river again in order to write my poem, of course. I do not want you to think for one moment that I would ever willingly decide to go back to that cursed river. However, when I would try to write at home, or on an isolated hill in the middle of residential parks, my mind would go blank and I would slowly begin to creep into despondency. My ideas were there and very present as I thought about them, but once I tried to write them anywhere besides the side of the river, I suddenly became incapable. So, with frustration and confusion in my heart, my next steps were obvious: I would have to return to the side of the river.
The day before I went, I vomited violently. My stomach could not be settled, and my heart and mind throbbed with agonizing pain. I had resolved to go in the middle of the night—around two in the morning. That way, there was absolutely no chance that I would see her again. I slept as early as I could, and though the amount of rest I had managed was little, I set out that morning with purpose. It was as cold as cold could be, but it had only energized me to get this done as soon as possible.
Understand that I was very drowsy in these moments. It will be important going forward. Anyhow, I sat down on the bench in a great fever and wrote the following:
“I’ve lost something I feel. Can anybody tell me what it is?
I feel as though I’m missing something dear to me. Very, very dear to me. If only I could tell somebody what it could be.
I don’t think about this feeling much. One could even argue that I do not think about this feeling at all.
However, on those particular days and particular nights… I cannot help wondering what it would be. There was a hole, and I could not fill it.
I would try. Believe me. I would try to fill it with love. It would remain. I would try to fill it with hatred. It would remain. I would try to fill it with sorrow. It would remain. I would try to fill it with pleasure. It would remain.
I would fill it with tears, and it would remain.
And despite me knowing of its immortality, I did not think about it much. How could this be? What could explain it?
There is a burning within me. I’m melting, I believe. It’s a feeling akin to melting.
I cannot help but wonder if I would cool down if I were submerged in water. I believe so.
There was once a special interaction between the land and the sky. The sky said to the land: ‘Why would you be content with staying below me? At my level and above, there is much more to see! I can see the entirety of you; however, you could only dream to see the entirety of me. Tell me, land, why won’t you come up here with me?’
‘I am unable,’ said the land.
I can’t help but feel a connection to this land.”
After I was done, I closed my notebook with a relieved quickness. I had written in such fever that I had begun to feel warm, though I believe this could have inversely been caused by hypothermia of sorts. I looked up at the sky and gazed upon the stars—they seemed to shine with a weakened glimmer. Perhaps it was because my fever had passed, but it was then that I heard breathing. A rough, terrible, strained breathing. It frightened me, and though I was too tired to give a dramatic reaction, my instincts had me look to where I had heard the vile gasps, and I was again met with Lilly’s face. She was different, however. Her eyes were a disturbing red, and her hair was frizzy and unkempt. She had a slight odor, as though she had been sweating a lot. She seemed a bit wet, though I have no clue if it was from rain or other sources. Her lips were cracked and dry, and her fingers spasmed and twitched at almost every other moment.
Allow me to refer to when I told you I was drowsy. I note it here because despite Lilly’s grisly, terrible appearance, I did not move from my spot. I didn’t move an inch; I didn’t jump; I didn’t scream. There was this great feeling of taboo deep within me as I looked at her. A minute passed, and she smiled.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Erick,” she whispered. “I… didn’t go to work today. I’ve been waiting since… seven the previous morning. Ha… Does that make me a bit odd? I don’t know why I waited so long… I… Couldn’t really help myself. I wasn’t thirsty or hungry or anything of the sort—I just… I was just really hoping to see you again.”
I said nothing.
“…I watched you write another poem. I didn’t read any of it, though… I just watched your hand write and write and write. Ha! It made me feel happy, somehow… Like I was given a hug… Maybe I am weird, or perhaps a bit delusional… I haven’t slept a wink…”
“…Would you like to read it?” I asked her. The feeling of taboo and sin within me increased. At that moment, I realized—and even now I realize—that I was making a grave error.
“Yes,” she replied.
I handed her my notebook and left. All the way home, I had a terrible sensation in my stomach. It was a terrible feeling, a terrible omen. Yet again, after I had slept throughout the day, I again found another idea for a poem. However, for a month I did not write. I didn’t write a word; I didn’t meditate on this idea for any period longer than a minute. Every time I thought to write, the feeling of sin rose within me and would drive me away from touching a pen. As the days went by, I grew increasingly sick, physically and mentally, and it reached a point where it was recommended that I take a week’s leave from my job. It was in this week that everything spiraled, and I eventually found myself back at the river. With a new, small notebook in hand, I sat down. Lilly was not here this time. I wrote the following:
“The sun is setting. Night will soon come to overtake it.
There must be warriors of the night. Warriors who come and defend the creatures from being consumed by their own thoughts and troubles, allowing them to sleep easy.
These warriors are prejudiced. They do not help everyone. The ones they help always smile when the sun returns, minds and bodies fresh with giddiness and passion. They look towards themselves and at others and find a joy.
However, the ones these warriors decide to isolate are left to remain in a forever night. What happens when you are left in a forever night? You are consumed by something, and you are left shaken.
You can spot the unfortunates who were left to be consumed. They will try and blend in, act as though they were saved—who doesn’t want to be saved, after all? However, if you watch them closely enough, they will show it. A crack in the smile, or a downwards tilt of their head, or a glimmer in their eye. All it takes is one sign to know the difference between the two.
Now, if you were to tell one of these unfortunate ones that you know they are unfortunate… it is an entirely different situation in and of itself.
Tell them for instance: ‘You are a very sad person, aren’t you?’ They will immediately go into a state of dread. They will look at you, tears boiling into their eyes, mouths open. They will stutter on their words, perhaps try to laugh it off. However, when this happens, you must look at them with sincerity, perhaps even pity. They will go into a frenzy then. Not of rage or anything of the sort. They will try to redirect your attention elsewhere, perhaps try to leave entirely.
Let them.
When you see them next, you will find them timid and meek. You could convince them to do whatever you please—all because they do not want to seem unfortunate. This is when darkness consumes them entirely, and they cease to be creatures.”
I wrote this in a flurry and ripped out the pages. I folded them as small as I could and then tucked them into the bench. I know exactly why I did that, then and now. I wanted Lilly to read them.
I came back the next day. My folded pieces of paper were gone. However, under the bench was a small note. It read:
“Thank you, Erick. Thank you so much. I hope I’ll see you again sometime soon. I am leaving.”
It was obvious who had written this. Perhaps it was intuition, but a feeling within me told me that this note was terrible. Absolutely terrible. I needed her to come back. Sometime, anytime.
This time, I was the one waiting on the bench. I waited all day, all night. I did not see her once. My uneasiness only grew, and the following night I went to look for her. I searched everywhere in town, all to no avail. However, as I was walking along the side of the river in order to continue my search elsewhere, I began to see something rise in the water. I drew closer, focusing my vision as best I could in the early dawn. What I saw was Lilly’s body.
I ran home immediately after that, and now I write this. I plan on redeeming myself for the terrible fate I brought upon that poor woman. I hope I will see her again soon.
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