On a clear evening --deep in the southernmost part of Florida-- a man sat upon his porch, creaking back and forth in a weathered rocking chair. A low, droning buzz rose from the swamp. Years of life on the bayou had taught him that this indicated mosquitos rising in swarms, preparing for the oncoming summer months.

In waves they would wash over the shores of mud that encased the swamp. Bubbling water, colored vomit green and umber brown, was the birthplace of the swarms that devoured the land each year. In the eyes of the man, it would be a harsh summer; temperature records had already been shattered and it was only the onset of the long, sweltering months to come. Pale blue eyes, set deep in creases of tanned skin, scanned the horizon, waiting for the buzzing to cease. It did not. Previous years had brought mild mosquito seasons; this summer was different. Buzzing droned in his ears and consumed his consciousness. They were coming for him.

The man rose unsteadily from his rocker; a wrinkled hand grasping firmly the feeble arm of the chair. Pale blue eyes flicked back and forth, observing the dark crevices of the swamp that lay before him. The droning resounded vehemently. For a moment he realized his foolishness and slowly sank back down into the rocker. There was no need to leave, the murmur would remain in the swamp, he would remain on the porch.

Rays of sunlight filtered through the dense foliage above the man. Evenings in Florida were quick; the final light of the afternoon plummeting quickly into the depths of night. Rocking quicker the man’s old eyes criticized the ever darkening swamp before him. His heart rate rose steadily. The elderly man chuckled to himself and finally stood. Sitting was a waste of time, instead of causing himself unnecessary trepidation he figured that it would be best to leave the porch and take a stroll among the palmettos.

A single lamp was lit, hanging on the front post of his porch. It oscillated softly in the gentle evening breeze. Dull light emanated from the lantern, barely illuminating the surrounding area. Hobbling down his walkway, he extended an aged hand to rustle the branches of the palms. A murmur rose once more from the swamp. Hastily the man’s eyes flashed up. He peered unseeingly into the darkness, searching for what he knew caused the annoyance.

“Silence, silence,” he muttered softly into the salty breeze.

Gloom canvassed the landscape as stars appeared above. With the dawn of night came the presence of the nocturnals. Hissing noises could be heard from the gators that inhabited the putrid waters. The decrepit man found himself wandering off the path of his home and into the swamp.

His eyes were weak and fumbled over the surroundings, searching for a recognizable landmark. The buzzing droned on. He reeled around in the darkness searching for the source of that troublesome, grating sound. He could only make out a mere shadow in the ever darkening woods. The gnarled voice barked out a low greeting, assuming the shadow belonged to a fellow wanderer. No reply was offered. Stumbling over twisted roots of cypress trees the man found that his shoes were becoming sodden with the sunless waters of the shore. Looking down he realized the filthy water had risen to the cuffs of his jeans. Frantically he sloshed backwards, eager to free himself from the mucky grasp of the bog.

As he thrashed the night grew still. The sounds of the bayou ceased and from the darkness a set of glowing eyes locked upon him in his struggle. No longer was the buzzing rising from behind trees out of the water. The hissing of the gators had ceased; only his shallow breaths disturbed the night. On his arm he felt the pinch of a mosquito, desperately trying to siphon a small taste of blood. Slowly the old man squashed the bug against his arm. Against his leg he felt a cold, scaly limb, rubbing like sandpaper on his agitated nerves. His blood chilled and shivers shook the waning body of the man.

Yellow eyes fixated upon him. Much closer than they had been a minute prior. It was dark. Painfully dark. The moon lent no light to allow sight to the old man. All that glowed in the dark were the eyes watching him. Struggling against the swamp with ever growing urgency the man watched the eyes. They bobbed, up and down, up and down. The water level would cover them, then once more reveal the glowing orbs as they inched closer. Occasionally an eye would close, relieving the unwavering gaze. It was only ever one eye that closed.

The scent of fear permeated the already reeking swamp air. The eyes disappeared beneath the surface of the water. A feeble shriek escaped the elderly man as he disappeared beneath the water. Bubbles rose to the surface of the swamp, marking the old man’s grave. The droning mosquitos returned and a new scent joined the conglomeration of smells already present in the swamp. Only the acrid stench of blood could create the malodor that now drifted peacefully through the swamp, wafting on the evening breeze as stars appeared in the vast heavens above.

foreword

One blessed with intellect is surely cursed

The mundanity of life does not escape us

We find beauty in what we do not understand

We take shelter in that which we do

We yearn for a place in a society that does not know us

. . .

My depths cannot be seen

There is no land in sight

There is only an endless expanse

That which I am

A lake does not crave a shore

For one is always in sight

But i am an ocean

There are no bounds to which I abide

.

I am left drifting

Land is but a memory

I have no border to claim

The quiet unknown is my home

.

A ship only docks momentarily

Long enough to ponder but not long enough to stay

Collecting tokens of the pilgrimage

Never finding the journey’s end

.

My seas urge the ship to port

But a change of tide draws it out again

I do not find peace on the shore

Nor is it found in the abyss

.

Always changing are my waves

High and low there is no constant

Unceasing is my uncertainty

In that I am steadfast

.

My tempests are fierce

Rain slashes and winds wail

Reflections of the turmoil beneath the surface

An attempt to illuminate my struggle

.

But storms are not pleasant

And the cause is not seen

The damage consumes

And leaves a bitter remnant

.

But the tide always returns

White sands hide my temper

Forgotten are my irritable ways

Beauty once more emerges

I am standing on the edge of a chasm

The bottom, I cannot see.

I cannot retrace my steps,

To leap could be death,

To stay could be intolerable.

When a hurricane blow through

For an instant, there is respite,

A brief interlude in the chaos.

Uncertainty is certain,

But for a moment,

Stillness

A blue sky.

When the song ends

The next song is on your playlist,

But you do not know which it is.

It could be a forgotten favorite

Or a bittersweet memory.

So for a second it is quiet,

Anticipation of the next emotion.

So easily can the course be altered

By a step or a leap

One way or another.

But what if I stay?

Is it possible to simply remain?

Must I always be in motion?

For a moment may I stand

Unsure, uncertain of my next step?

Which way do I go?

How fast do I move forward?

Can I move back?

It is a game of chess

The next move is projected

But nothing is set;

Each action is a reaction,

A response to a situation presented.

Is there even free will?

I think not.

For if will was truly free,

There would be no influence on the action.

Rather, we have will

Manipulated and guided by circumstance.

Do we perceive this?

Rarely not.

So the facade remains,

And we believe we have control.

But can one control that which is already in motion?

A ball rolling down a hill does not stop

Its path is not changed.

Rather, it accelerates

Along the track already chosen

Guided by gravity.

Is my life the same?

Am I but a ball

Rolling towards an inevitable stop,

Propelled by that which I cannot control?

So why do I worry,

If I am but a sailing ship

Winds billowing my sails

At the mercy of whatever gale catches.

Perhaps we should embrace the in between,

For it is a moment of certainty

On the precipice of upheaval.

Possibly the dark before a new sunrise,

Or the red sky that precursors the storm.

In fact, it may be the sunset

A beautiful end, yet a joyous beginning

An intermission

A season of rest

The last flames quenched by a silent night.

There is a dichotomy to the in between

The tension of unknowing

The allure of tranquility

Perhaps I don’t truly understand it

Maybe it is not to be understood.

The in between just is,

Resignation to whatever happens

Being at peace with not having control

Holding on to the present moment before change comes

And that is okay.