Alright folks, let’s dive right into how I actually figured out this whole “still black waters” symbol thing today. Started off totally confused, ended up slapping my forehead going “duh!” Let me walk you through the mess.
Hitting The Wall
Opened up this dense novel this morning, right? Coffee in hand, ready for some deep reading. Bam. Hits me right away – the hero dude stands by this eerily still, dark pond. Author kept going on and on about it. Felt like staring at mud. Had zero clue what this murky pond was supposed to mean. Felt frustrating as heck. Like the writer was speaking another language.
Put the book down. Stared at my own ceiling for a good ten minutes. Felt thick-headed. Thought about just skipping those parts – almost did! But that cheap feeling stuck in my gut. Knew I was missing something big.
Digging In The Dirt
Enough waffling. Grabbed a notebook and a leaky pen. Wrote at the top: “Still. Black. Water. WHY?”
- First thought: Death? Heard that one a lot. Dark water = bad news.
- But death usually has waves, storms… this was still. Silent. Didn’t fit right.
- Scratched that out hard. Pen ripped the paper a bit. Frustration showing.
Checked online quick – huge mistake. Everybody saying deep stuff like “the primordial abyss” or “the void.” Nonsense. Felt colder than that pond. Needed something real.
Paced my tiny kitchen. Kept circling back to the word “still”. That stillness bugged me more than the blackness. If it was scary and moving, easy! Monsters. But still? Why was that spooky?
The Lightbulb Moment (Dim, But Working)
Saw my own mug sitting on the counter. Coffee long gone, just black sludge staining the bottom. Not moving. Looked deep, even though it was just a stupid mug.
Boom. Hit me like the fridge door I walked into while thinking.
Still black water isn’t about what’s in it. It’s about what it reflects back at YOU.
Too dark to see the surface clearly? Means you see nothing but your own distorted outline.
Too still? Nothing distracting you. Just you. Staring at this dark, unclear version of yourself.
My notes from that moment:
- Stagnant water = stuck thoughts? Unresolved garbage?
- Black water = hidden stuff? Stuff you won’t even admit is down there?
- Stillness = forcing you to actually look at it? Nowhere to run?
Suddenly that dumb pond wasn’t scenery. It was a mirror for the character’s nasty inner crap he kept avoiding. Maybe shame. Maybe a secret. Maybe fear he wouldn’t admit. The pond forced him to confront it, murky and unclear.
Testing It Out On Real Words
Couldn’t believe it might be that simple. Went back to the book section.
Reread the part:
“He avoided the pond’s edge, yet felt its pull. The water reflected nothing but a shadowed smudge where his face should be.”
HOLY MOLY.
It clicked! Not death. Not ancient cosmic goo.
It was screaming about him running from his own shadow self. The “black water” held the gunk he buried. The “stillness” meant he had no distractions left – just him and his refusal to see it clearly.
Tried it on a different old poem later, one with a “silent black mere.” Same deal! Character was stuck wallowing in regret they wouldn’t even name. The black water was their unspoken guilt. Stillness meant they were frozen by it. Made perfect, ugly sense.
Felt weirdly chuffed. Looked at my stained mug again. Even the coffee sludge seemed profound for a second. Okay, maybe not.
So… Yeah
Turns out you don’t need a PhD in Symbolism 101. Sometimes the scariest, deepest stuff is actually pointing squarely at our own reluctance to face our own murky insides. Still black waters? Less like a swamp monster, more like being forced to look into a muddy, unflattering mirror.
Sounds basic now. But this morning? Felt like cracking a safe. Sometimes you gotta wrestle with the fog before you see your own reflection in the black water. Lesson learned. Coffee helped.
