the ocean does not taste nice.
it does not taste blue, it tastes white — the violent part, seductive tempest.
there's a lighthouse on the rocks and I think its light is looking for a way home. I am too, but I cut my feet on the stones the gentler waves here haven't smoothed for me.
that is a metaphor too, of course. the gentle things aren't always the kindest. the most violent waves make the smoothest of stones.
neither of those things mean anything, really, at least on their own.
we don't have to live like that, we can run away from it at any time, but the waves always come back to the shore and one day they will swallow us.
the ocean tastes like drowning but it also tastes like a mystery and there's no reason it can't be both, or neither. maybe it just happens to exist like that, or maybe it has a reason. it doesn't really matter either way of course, and that's a metaphor for something too, I think.
