Look at me, showing off a photo of my cigarette–once lit and now wasted. What are cigarettes but a unit of measurement indicating one’s happiness? At least for me it is, as it always had been. Call it a suicide in progress. What was it that made me put the light out?
I was surrounded by nature, hearing the relaxing ocean waves repeatedly kissing the shore, the crash and the roll, the ambient noise of the forest. I was finally away from the city. I was finally away from all of it. My ashtray… was a shell.
Damn, was I happy. It wasn’t all sunshine in the woods. In fact, it was drizzling. The ground was wet and slippery, the cost of a September getaway. I was in love. I was in love with the atmosphere, enjoying the entire time it tried to push me away. Never had I felt so happy loving something that didn’t love me back–and I learn that such a feeling exists.
I’ve always had a fascination with the ocean. I also fear it. I fear that I won’t be able to match its beauty, its power, its allure.
I can swim but I can never trust my gut. As my body touches the open waters, I am overcome with amazement; time stands still and that feeling becomes loneliness, the kind dosed with tranquility. Never had I fallen in love with something that I so deeply feared–and again I learn that such a feeling exists.
I can swim but I can never trust my gut. The ocean is permanent; it will eat me alive. Still, I wish to be one with it… ultimately. I wish to be a thing of poetry, lonely and tranquil, feared and permanent.