Hi! While I attempted to study for my Leaving Cert, I became hyper aware of how much I really like poetry, and was inspired to write these drabbles. We begin with "Antarctica" by Derek Mahon. I hope you enjoy :D
John once told me the true story of one Lawrence Oates, part of an expedition team attempting to reach the South Pole by foot. The man had developed severe frostbite and was endangering his comrades with his slow pace. One night, he got up and left the shelter, his last words convincing his friends that it was for the best- "I am just going outside and may be some time." But everybody on the expedition died anyway.
That tale sticks with me. I thought I had deleted it, but apparently not. It is fitting, really, that it would come to mind now. The exception being, of course, my "death" will not be futile in my attempts to save my friends from execution.
Lestrade.
Mrs. Hudson.
John.
And me.
We're fighting against the freezing cold, and the snow is Moriarty. Every advancement of his plot is a biting gust of wind, luring me outside and into the enemy's grasp. That howling wind calls only for me.
And yet I am afraid. I don't show it. I can't show it. Like Oates, I'm simply going outside. I will be some time. They can't know what I'm doing, and why. I can't put them in more danger than they are already in.
My worry is that a snowstorm doesn't stop after it has killed a man. The weather does not lay down arms when offered sacrifice. The cold reduces the world to white- blank, new and pointless. A storm does not stop until it is spent, and I doubt my suicide would be the warm front to push it all away. A cold front meets a warm front and war ensues. The storm gets stronger. The warm rises only to turn cold again and tumble downwards to Earth with a bang.
This could all be for nothing. But I need to hope that this heartless, heartfelt action saves those I hold dear. I give myself to the snow for them.
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.