The Waters Edge.

 The Waters Edge.

 

I used to speak of the tide of life, the ebb and flow of a great current of wills receding and careening toward the break. The ocean can mean many different things. It was the enemy to Caligula, but a means of salvation for the puritans. For a good number of years I felt like a madman who shipwrecked on the shore line ranting about the dangers of the undertow as well as admiring the way the light hit each waves crest. There were days where I would wade out into the tide for no other purpose than to tell the monsters of the deep that they could not instill within me fear. There have been moments where my limp body has floated face up toward the sky with the salty waves lapping at my eyes, set adrift without direction or purpose. In the sea of life there is as much beauty as there are dangers, tranquility as numerous as ways to die. What is the sea to a man that yearns for the mountains? The comfort of that higher ground brings along with the rushing of the streams and the stillness in balance both flow to a place deep within my soul.  There is an orchestra in the leaves, harmoniously embracing each other in a hushed choir of peace. The sea has its own songs, a rhythmic chanting that seems to beacon men to both come live and also to die.  My journey heads inland towards those mountain, further from the waters of my youth. The starlight ablaze, casting scintillating light across my sea shell littered path. I still hear the sound of the ocean, but I find a comfort in keeping dry.