Hi, thanks for taking a look at my writing. This is very new to me, but I was told if you write about a feeling, and it helps you, it may help someone else.
Diving board.
I feel like I’m on a diving board, up very high. I’m outside. The sun begins to set, and a storm is rolling in. It’s windy and the clouds are dark; I see it on the horizon, creeping toward me. There’s no ceiling when I look up, nor can I tell how high I am when I look down. I just see a little blue dot of water and a crowd of people gathered around it. I guess they are waiting for a dive.
To be honest, I don’t even know how deep it is. It must be fine, otherwise why would I be here? But I don’t know—I just know it’s getting dark. I step back, ready to jump. But the winds are picking up, and I stop to steady myself. That’s where I am: I’m stuck.
But I can’t stand here forever. If I don’t do it—if I don’t jump—I’ll be blown off. And if I fall, I might not hit the pool. Even if I jump successfully, if my form is just a little off, I’ll shatter all my bones like I’m hitting concrete. But I have to jump, and soon. The winds are fiercely strong. I’m gripping the board with my toes, but they are slick with the rain. Thunder cracks in the distance to warn me.
I’ve stayed too long, and now the board is beginning to sway. I have to jump soon. The pool below is seconds away, but the moments in between then and now are lasting hours. I’ve stayed here for too long. I know it hasn’t been safe to jump for a while now, but I also know I have to, or else I’ll fall. The ladder that led me here is gone—I think it was taken by those watching below. They want to see a dive, and I know I have to jump.
The wind is howling now. Lightning dances and threatens me throughout the dark red clouds. I can’t move; it’s taking all I have just to remain here. My mind is screaming at me to move forward, and to jump. But my body just won’t. It’s tense, frozen—clinging to safety on a tall tower, exposed on a plank, swaying in the wind. Yet I’m still staying here.
The tower board creaks and sways with the constant gale of wind whipping through its flimsy frame—and through me. I drop to one knee and grip the board’s brittle edges. With the rain stinging my back and the wind screaming in my ears, I cast my mind away. I think of that tiny blue speck below, and all those people around it. All those people… What are they thinking, I wonder?
I’m sure some are concerned with their hair in the rain, or their shoes in the mud. I think of the children wondering why they are stuck out in the storm. The adults are probably dividing their attention. Some are hoping I miss my mark—wanting to experience a tragedy from a safe distance, just to say they were there when the diver failed. Some are waiting for me to execute my dive perfectly, only to comment on how unremarkable it was. Others are simply disinterested in the outcome, entirely disconnected from the stakes.
My mind mimics their voices to taunt me: *Why so high up? What’s taking so long? He is crazy! Didn’t he know the storm was coming? Was this a dare? Is this a punishment? A plea for attention?* I feel these thoughts cut through me with the cold chill of the wind. Through this mass of people, I ponder the others.
What about those who know me as more than just a silhouette highlighted against raging clouds? The ones who put me here. Do they believe I will make my mark? The ones who cheered me on as I climbed up—do they see my hesitation and think I’m calculating my trajectory, focusing my form? They believe in me, that’s why they are here, but do they share in my fear? Are they frozen on the ground as hours pass within seconds, just as I am frozen in the air? Do they think I’m merely waiting for the wind to die down? Do they also realize that it won’t?
They might, but there is a fear that is my own. Even if I jump flawlessly, even if I soar with perfect form, if the wind guides my descent and I enter the water without a splash or sound, I fear I still may drown. Even if those around me are amazed and wowed, the scene may be too perfect, and they may not let me out.
A crack of thunder reminds me the storm is here. It’s time to jump. I open my eyes, desperately hoping the view has changed, or maybe the wind has given me the window I need.
It hasn’t. And as the dark red clouds swallow the last of the light, I realize it never will. The storm isn’t passing; it has arrived. The fantasies of the crowd—their impatience, their malice, their misplaced faith—dissolve back into the howling wind. It doesn’t matter what they think, or what I think. The ladder is gone. The tower is trembling. There is only the slick edge, the terrifying drop, and the water waiting far beneath me.
submitted by /u/MidgetKicker97
[link] [comments]