My heart is an oil rig, pumping black blood in turbulent seas.
As ice-cold waves pound its perimeter, its structural integrity is tested with a monotonous regularity. Before each fresh onslaught, there is a lull, a quiet. But that’s just the effect of the next wave gorging itself on the rig’s immediate surrounds. The waters recede, yielding an eerie calm, and a momentary, but false, sense of security. Within seconds, those waters are thrown back against the rigs frame in a fit of rage. How long can it withstand this sort of treatment?
There is nothing elegant about the rig. It stands, but it stands, alone, in the middle of the ocean. And like a war veteran hardened by battle, the rig can’t hide its experience. It bears the scars. And bears them only barely.
There is nothing elegant about the rig. It stands, but it stands, alone, in the middle of the ocean. And like a war veteran hardened by battle, the rig can’t hide its experience. It bears the scars. And bears them only barely.
But the rig is still functional. It’s doing a job. It’s just not operating at full capacity any more. A significant section has been de-commissioned, its purpose now redundant. All that flows through there now are memories, fading wisps of former glories.
And so the rig groans as it labours, drawing dark molasses from the underworld, and redistributing it to every part of my system. It keeps me alive. But it keeps me in a perpetual state of sadness. There are happy moments. But the backdrop is always black blood. Another wave shakes the frame.
I long for renewable energy. Solar power. Something from above, drawn from the light of day, not from the bowels of the earth. I long for warmth. I long for terra firma. Stability. The rig just floats, exposed, exceedingly vulnerable. But maybe experience will prove its resilience and bring some sort of confidence in its ability to keep going.
