Black
Ice
by Lindsay D, Perth, W.Aus, Australia, Age 14
Antarctica. The only word to describe it. Not a
continent, not an island, not really any place in this world. To
say that would be to disrespect it. This place is unique. Indescribable.
Pitiless.
The wind tugs at the ropes of the flimsy tent, howling
like a banshee, the architect of lifelessness. An illustration of
our weakness. Laughing at our feeble attempts to tame it. What is
it in human nature that makes us see something, then feel that we
must know what it is, feel that we should know its deepest secrets?
Some things are indescribable. Some things should not be described.
Some things flaunt our methods of communication. I think that this
is why we use Inuit words to attempt to explain this place. They
know places like this better than us. They are happy to exist in
conditions like these- just exist. They do not seek to explain or
harness it any more than is absolutely necessary. That’s why
they’re still alive. They know their boundaries.
We do not know ours.
I do not know mine.
But I think I’m starting to understand now.
Too late, I think, looking at my shattered leg.
The dogs are silent. Do they know their own mortality?
As a dog refuses to jump a chasm that is too big for it, I see that
they, in reality, are wiser than us. We’d jump anyway and
fall to our deaths. A so-called challenge, proof of our idiocy.
They don’t seek to challenge themselves. Because, unchangeably,
challenge leads to self- destruction.
I try to recall feelings. The smell of grass, of
gum trees. The taste of red wine. Heat. Heat, just a distant memory
now. As one can imagine the taste of food when hungry, warmth can
now be imagined, and as an addict needs supply, so I need these
feelings.
I need to feel like I’m on this planet again.
I need to go home.
The knife
is long and sharp. I see my battered face in its reflection. A sad
smile is upon it.
I’m
going home.
