From about 7 to 7:30 P.M. I sail across the concrete lake, because I'm making bad decisions. The light of the day is gone and a single lamp post sits on a slim shore of grass. It acts as a lighthouse, warning travelers of the brick walls that surround three fourths of the lake. There are two small canals that lead outwards in opposite directions, but they soon become asphalt. I feel more at ease when sailing on the concrete. It's secluded.
I wonder how many others have sailed across this concrete lake while making similar bad decisions. I know some have, because I can see the cigarette butts littering the ground around the lighthouse for about a 5 foot radius.
We flock to the lighthouse, the others and me. Never meeting, but seeing the evidence of the others. Unfamiliar footprints in the cold, white, crystallized sand tell a story. A simple one, but one that makes me feel less alone.
A crushed can of something I suspect is alcoholic is half buried in the freezing sand. The sailors are definitely not a sober people. I laugh at myself and my thoughts as I stumble away, leaving in a shakier manner than that in which I came. The concrete really does become liquid for a moment underneath my drunken feet.
I should really stop making such bad decisions, but I can't resist the allure of the calm, silent, concrete lake.
-The Wolf Boy
