Even in the dark fog, two ships see each other. Cutting through the water, their lights shine through like stars on a black night. A cinematic scene of two focal points pulled parallel. The ships are gorgeous, their sleek steel shining from the others’ light. They appear to be floating in an abyss created from the inky night.
They float in silence, parallel to each other, the only two fools lost in the night. Even as they float, they match pace but never speak. The others’ presence is comforting, and the dark is security. A black curtain that cannot be passed, a guard between the two, that each ship helped to put up.
And so they trek on, two ships in the dark. The silence is friendly; they need not communicate, yet they stay at each other’s side. The velvet black sheet on which they float would crumple in the face of the midnight gale. In response to the waves lapping at their sides, the ships bobble softly in the dark, flowing towards each other and pulling apart. They’d play this game in the security of the night, two strands of twine weaving towards each other, pulling back, pulling the string tight. The line grew taut, then slackened in rhythm with the waves. In the wake of their journey, they’d woven a tapestry so thin it cracked apart on the crest of the waves even in its peace. As they pursued the dark ahead of them, they left silk dissolving in the abyss that held them.
A storm would brew as all storms do. Parallel ships like flags at bay, at the mercy of the wind, but with pillars anchored deep. When a storm brewed, they’d bob up and down and pull apart yet again. Two parallel ships with an ocean between them, the inky darkness would stretch, but the distance conformed them. Sometimes they’d disappear for days, but in the dark, no one could tell for how long. And it was certain, they’d always come back.
The only thing in the deep midnight sea, these silent ships that merely moved softly, was the black curtain that separated them. The empty stretch of sea had never been crossed, and nor did they believe it would be. When storms would siege, and tides would change, they’d toe the line but never cross it. This was the law of the ocean, the unforgiving consequence of the artwork that lingered in fragmented bones behind them.
But, as with all rules, this one was to be broken. On the crest of a fateful storm approaching their century-long journey, there was a powerful wave. Under the guise of a normal storm, it approached the ships with ease, and with deceptive power, it pushed them together.
No longer were they parallel with stretches between them, but their iron spines rubbed against each other, sending sparks into the endless night. The pressure of the others’ weight was too much for the two ships to bear. Long into the journey they were, and long had they prepared to close the gap, but without the distance they had grown together with, they clashed solemnly. The weight was more than they expected.
Even though they had known the danger of the other, they chose to float parallel. Bobbing and weaving, perilously close, the silk they’d wove together was broken and afloat. The ships of metal mirrored the likes of Icarus. They had flown too close to the sun.
No longer parallel, pushing the other in the opposite direction. Their endless journey had ended. The dark midnight cradled one last star in her wake, as the other had become too far gone.
