A man spends his whole life fishing in himself for something grand. It's like some lost lunker, big enough to break all records. But he's only heard rumors, myths, vague promises of wonder. He's only felt the shadow of something enormous darken his life. Or has he? Maybe it's the shadow of other fish, greater than his, the shadow of other men's souls passing over him. Each day he grabs his gear and makes his way to the ocean. At least he's sure of that: or is he? Is it the ocean or the little puddle of his tears? Is this his dinghy or the frayed boards of his ego, scoured by storm? He shoves off, feeling the land fall away under his boots. Soon he's drifting under clouds, wind whispering blandishments in his ears. It could be today: the water heaves and settles like a chest. . . He's not far out. It's all so pleasant, so comforting--the sunlight, the waves. He'll go back soon, thinking: "Maybe tonight." Night with its concealments, its shadow masking all other shadows. Night with its privacies, its alluringly distant stars.
Reprinted from More Things in Heaven and Earth with permission of Four Way Books. Copyright © 2002 by Kurt Brown. All rights reserved.