The Riverbed

To end all suffering is the primary directive of life, insofar that suffering can be ended, but I, a stern believer in the hope of mankind, believe it can, and should be.

To end all suffering is to cease fighting the losing battle with which the Self wages, to dis-identify from identity itself, to let go the ego, to surrender and give in to the all consuming and all powerful force of love, and to know deeply in one’s heart that violence and corruption and verisimilitude are as futile as a cloud hanging forever in the sky.

It is with these thoughts that I carry myself and stroll down the earthy, cobblestone path by the river, watching the ducks wade through the murky water and dip below the surface every now and then to pluck out some weed or critter and gobble it down. 

It is with these thoughts that I, a man approaching his thirtieth year, sit down on a bench opposite the river and crack open an old, weathered book gifted to me by my mother, and begin to read from where I left off.

And, it is with these thoughts that I read distractedly, taking in the words and phrases and sentences and yet not taking them in as well; my eyes floating over the letters as one scans the price tags in the supermarket, reading but not reading, seeing but not seeing, and I, disgruntled by this calamity of the situation of my mind, decide to put the book down, and take in the sights and sounds of the park instead.  

It is at this moment that two lovers walk by, hands held in matrimony; the man says one thing and the woman laughs heartily and fully, closing her eyes and throwing her head back. And it is here, in this moment, that I feel a pang in my chest and a drowning of my good mood, for it reminds me of my failure with Anna and the falling out with which tore us apart. 

It has been four years now, but the falling out feels just as raw as it did the days after it occurred; the words I spoke to her, so venomous and evil, haunt me as a ghoul haunts a man. To reconcile would be everything; to stay apart is torture. But it is I who spoke those words and spat that venom and conjured that evil, and it is I who must sit with them, on this bench, on this fine, sunny day by the riverbed. 

Oh! If I could only rescind that which was spoken, if I could only rewind that which as ticked and tocked; if I could step into a time machine and kill my old self and assume the role of a man who knows not to hurt the one he loves. But it is suffering that brought me there, and it is suffering that keeps me here now, and it is suffering that I inflicted upon her dear soul.

To be the cause of one’s misfortunate is one thing, but to cause the misfortune of another is something else entirely. And so, I sit here with these thoughts, staring at the ripples in the river and the indifference with which nature imposes on Herself. 

And that’s when I spot here, shocked and elated, my dearest, my love, strolling by the opposite side of the creek, heading towards the bridge which brings her to my side of the cobblestone. And I know this is providence, divine intervention, and a single chance at lasting peace amid the dark currents and waves of oceanic indifference. 

I get up from the bench, not daring to take my eyes off her, and I begin walking slowly in her direction, to assume the role of a man who is not knowing where he is going or why, so should our imminent meeting assume the role of accidentalness. 

I stare down at her feet, shuffling towards me, her eyes on the river, and as we come near to one another, I say: “Anna…”, and she turns her head and her eyes go wide as my gaze meets hers, and I can see that she’s moved, for tears have sprung to life in the wells of her pupils, but that gaze then turns to stony coldness, and I see that my position has been made clear.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, dryly. 

Not knowing what to say, I say everything.

“It’s me,” I reply, after a moment too long.

She crosses her arms, but at least she has not left.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said.

Tears spring to life in my eyes. “I can’t—I’m not…” I stammer.

“Not what?” She asks.

“Not what you needed me to be.”

She laughs, head thrown back just as the woman who walked by the bench did minutes ago. “That’s for sure.”

“Anna…” I start.

“What?” She says coldly.

“I wish I could take it back.”

“Well, you can’t.”

I feel desperation rising in me. This is it. This is the moment with which our paths either cross or separate forever. I get down on my knees, and pray.

“What are you doing?” She whispers in an icy tone. “You’re embarrassing me.”

And I start to bawl, because I know nothing I say, nothing I do, can erase that which I said, and so I am in service to her, in this moment, totally and completely surrendered, wishing my suffering — and hers — to not go on any longer.

“You trusted me, and I failed you.” I stammer through my sobs.

And it is here that she pauses a moment, and her hands swing down, no longer crossed over her chest.

“Hey…hey!” She says, pulling me back up to my feet. “Stop it!” She says, though she is biting back the tears. “Its over,” she says, but her eyes betray her, as does her lips which quiver, and her ears which have turned quite red. 

“I know it’s over, but I can’t stop the pain,” I say.

“You’re just going to have to get on.”

“What can I say that will change things?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Truly?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

I regain my composure, and look at the river, flowing gently and softly. A calmness comes over me. The pain is there, but the suffering, which is prolonged pain, has ceased its grasp on my heart. Here is definite proof, an ending, which changes something within me; no longer am I slave to the past, but an heir to the future, a proponent of the present. I close my eyes, and pray again, this time silently.

“I understand,” I say, finally.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I hold out my hand, and we shake, reconciled, but not together.

That was the last time I’d see her, even though I’d still come to the riverbed, for the creek is beautiful, just like her. I lost the battle, but in my surrender, the suffering ceased to be, like the river, which flows on endlessly.