Wind Back Home
The man walks a little. He wants some open
space. He needs time to think about all the things he knows. So, he climbs up
to the top of the biggest dune that he can see and pauses at the summit. He
looks at everything below him. It all looks so small. Little matchstick people
living carelessly, and little matchstick boats bobbing on the careless sea. It
all makes him wonder. While he wonders he sinks to the ground, slowly, until he
is sitting cross-legged in the sand. He thinks about those little matchstick boats,
steered by their matchstick-men captains in newspaper hats. He thinks about how
they are always steered back into the same port at the end of every journey.
And he thinks about the travellers onboard - the restless, escaping. With their
fixed return date always in mind. It’s funny, really. The seaside is the
epitome of that. It’s the epitome of people thinking they’re free, when,
really, they’re just on short-leave. Bank holidays and summer and things. Life
may seem better here, but, really, it’s not. Life is just held off by an hour,
here. A day or two, maybe a week. Never more.
The donkeys, he thinks. It’s all quite a lot
like the tiny little donkeys that plod along their route to the left of his
view. He looks at them. They walk forwards and backwards along the beach,
always coming back around to the same post, waiting for the next trip. He
wonders if they ever think of running forwards, in a straight line, and not
stopping until they’re really free, not just out on a trip. He wonders if that’s possible. Surely they
must want to. If they do, he wonders, why don’t they? After a few minutes
watching and thinking, he concludes that it’s all to do with what they know.
And it’s all to do with what they expect. The tiny little donkeys know that
they must always come back, that they can never just stay away, carry on to
freedom. They must always turn around and retrace their steps. They have always
known this. It’s what they’ve been taught. The thought makes him quite sad.
Looking down at the tiny little people and tiny
little donkeys, he is sad that they have the same life. The little people teach
the little donkeys all the same things that they have been taught, he realises.
That thought makes him sad too.
After that last thought he sits and feels sad for
a few minutes. Then, whilst he sits sadly, a little boy with blond hair runs,
quite unexpectedly, just past him. The child stops, and turns around to face
the man. The child looks confused. The man says hi, wondering if maybe the
child would mind if a donkey ran to freedom with him on his back. The man
thinks that he wouldn’t mind it at all if he were the one on the donkey’s back.
He starts to ask the boy, thinking that a second perspective may make things
clearer. As he starts to ask, a grown-up with the same blond hair appears from
behind. The grown-up grabs the boy’s hand. Grabs the boy’s hand a little too
roughly, thinks the man. He hears the grown up say something about strangers as
the child is dragged, still confused, away. What a strange thing to happen,
thinks the man.
He is not really sure what the brief encounter
might mean for all of the things that he’s been thinking about, but he knows
that it makes him feel sad again. Sad in the same way that the boats and the
donkeys make him feel sad. Nihilistic, thinks the man unexpectedly. He vaguely
knows what the words means, and it seems to fit quite well with his sadness
today. Yes, he thinks, nihilistic. That’s what I feel. And I think I understand
why.
Life, he thinks. Life and other people’s expectations.
And other people’s ill-informed judgement. And my own ill-informed judgement.
It’s hard to be alive and be free from life, and from opinions. You can take a
break from it all, he thinks, but you will always find your way back. Or life
will find its way back to you. It would be better if there were no judgements
and no opinions. And no going back. Things could be fixed if no-one went back.
If everyone carried on, and walked away from the things that made them sad. But
they don’t. Everyone is expected back. And everyone goes back. And that, he
decides, is his conclusion. And the reason for his nihilism. Satisfied that he
understands, he now asks himself what to do.
After a short time he comes up with two
possible options.
He could trace his steps around and go back,
return to carry on living among the matchstick people. Or, he could not. As
soon as he knows the options, he sees what must be done.
He walks slowly down the dune towards the
beach.
First, he heads in the direction of the
donkeys. They’re a lot bigger from down here. From down here he can see their
tough hair and steady, strong legs. They definitely seem like they could run
forever. If they wanted to. He pats the closest one. Delilah. She turns her sturdy
head and considers him with deep, dark eyes. Her short ears, covered in those
tough, coarse hairs gently lean forward. They lean towards him. It rather feels
likes she’s asking what he wants to say. He really does have something to say
to her. He puts his head close to one of those hairy, rough ears and tells her
something. He tells her something important. Something about freedom and
choice.
Then, he walks to the water’s edge. He kicks
off his shoes, and peels off his socks. He rolls the pair of socks neatly
together and places them on the toe of the left shoe, which he lines up
perfectly next to the right, the toes facing out to sea. He lifts his hands
above his head and starts to walk forwards, in the direction that the empty
shoes point. He doesn’t stop. He does not turn back.
Four hours and twenty-five minutes later, the
earth and the moon have continued to move. The greedy, ever changing tide has
taken the shoes and socks.
Two weeks later the man’s empty shoes will wash
up onto the same beach, roughly seventeen and a half feet away from the spot
that they were left. The socks, however, will rest for a while somewhere off of
the Algarve coast. They’ll probably find their way back eventually, though.
