Choking on darkness…
Choking on spoiled sweetness…
Choking and enjoying the mere pleasure of feeling reckless in our desperate attempts to float above the rising, violent rush of the ocean in all of its mighty state and power. Yearning for a bluer sky with lusher clouds and simultaneously polluting the air with hypocrisy.
We like to swim in it. We like to swim in the addicting illusion of timelessness.
Yearning for things…
Yearning for a piece…
Building things up and then tearing them down. Swallowing the destruction and watching the world pass by like blurry scenery outside the window of a speeding train.
WOOSH.
Man stands up, looks up, shifts his weight, rolls his sore shoulders back, twists his neck around to see, gazes about at the menagerie of people frozen against the skin of the shore. The waves slip up to their toes. He reaches down to feel the sand, miniscule grains sticking to the interior of his grimy nails. Eyes of a pompous lady stab his back behind a wall of glossy shades. A pinkish sheen of sweat encompasses her robust figure, loosely contained by a two-piece suit as a dull sun beats down against the environment of the still scene. Silence. Except for the murmur of the water.
Whispering… a constant whispering…
“Where did it go?”
Whispering…Sharper and louder…
“Where did it all go?”
His legs take him to the edge of the shore where water meets land. The motion of the waves caressing the moist surface below his bare feet create inner turmoil; the soft touch of the water is inviting him in. Inviting him to sink into its arms.
It is deep and wide…
What it would be like to choke on it…
As freeing as choking on darkness?
As freeing as choking on spoiled sweetness?
Choking, what is the physical feeling when one is aware?
He is suddenly drifting. The salt of the water is dry and harsh against his face. Man stares into the distance and only sees infinite space. The sun is so small from his disposition in the ocean. Holding up his fingers to grasp some small amount of perspective, he tries to fit the sun’s body between his thin index finger and thumb. He smushes thin air.
The ocean rocks him back and forth like a rusty swing.
I could float here forever…
I am not quite lost.
Yet, I am not quite found.
I am moving.
But I am not making progress.
Like a child on a rocking horse.
Man pulls himself under.
Under.
Under.
Under.
