Fishermen

Beirut, July 2008

He threw the net over the sparkling water, the wind blew it a little further than he had aimed for, so he tried to readjust his throw once or twice before giving up his vacuous attempts. He sat there, lonely, in the corner of his wooden craft amidst a deserted sea mirroring the last rays of a dying sun. His loneliness was as immense as the passionate skies above his shoulders. He could not bear it anymore. Fish were happily dancing around the carcass of his boat, as if they were celebrating a new era. He squeezed the last bit of his tired cigarette between his thumb and middle finger before chucking the butt in the midst of the swirling fish. A little turmoil in an untainted ocean. The sea swallowed its wound and the fish returned to their dance. His eyes followed the event with indifference. So close to his bait, yet so far. He could even catch it with his bare hands if he ventured his arm in the icy water. But he refused to move, his limbs froze in humiliation as the sky slowly lost its fire, paling gradually into pitch blackness.