The Well of Imagination

I spend a lot of time on the other side of the river, looking back.

Seeing you, standing there, in the rushing water.

Eyes wide, uncertain of what to do, where to go.

The river’s never the same twice, of course, but I’ve crossed it. Felt the icy current slide against my skin as I fought my way through. 

Alone, but for words shouted from the wrong side, calling me back — not forward.

Or down, to the water.

But that voice was never strong for me.

Not as strong for me as it is for you.

Your despair — I can taste it on my lips as you keep standing there, crying as the water pummels you again and again.

I can see, sometimes, that you want to give in — let the river carry you far away into oblivion.

But that’s why

I spend a lot of time on the other side of the river, looking back.

Because I never had a voice on the right side, calling me forward. Only whispers of people long gone, too fragile to help me.

But I’ll be that voice for you. I’ll call out to you so you know there is an end.

But it always gets worse before it gets better.

And I can’t carry you through the river.

Because on the other side of the river, there’s another river. Not quite the same, but still a river. And I have to cross my own rivers.

Again.

And again.

But listen for me. Listen for my voice. I’ll be there, on the other side of the river, looking back.

I’ll be the first hand to pull you out and tell you

It’s going to be okay.

But only you can choose to listen.

You have too much pain in your life. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Then again, I never imagined we would become such good friends.

But every time I see you cry out, I ache for you. I want to help, but what can I do? I’ve never experienced what you’re experiencing. I can see that it’s killing you from the inside. I can see it hurts so much that you want to take away the pain by ending it with the greatest finality. All I can do is tell you things will get better, that people care, but I don’t know how much you hear.

It scares me, you know, that you might not want to hold on anymore. Every time I think of you, you make me sad. I see exactly what it is that you’re missing in your life - the thing that makes my troubles easier to bear than yours - but it’s not something I can give to you. It’s something that you must find yourself.

But for now, give me your hand, and I’ll hang on for you. Because that’s what friends do.