A wave coming darkly, silently. Wait. The supple kiss of the wave admitting defeat. In its absence, only a mirror stained black, pooling at my feet. Behind: the sandy hills burning in the afterglow. The tide retreating. Then, resurgence. The cold burn. Like ice. Like solitude. The immensity. The immanence. I cannot comprehend the shifting and pulling plane of existence where I stand. The small shadows. Angles of light. Dimensions leaping into my eyes and deepening. The refracted shimmer of the glass blinding from beneath. The rifting texture. Sand crystals illuminating. The peach fuzz of bubbles. A line of froth returning to the sea. Sand pipers scurrying at fringe’s edge. Effervescent ripples. Near the light reflected. The expansive plane is opening before me.
A million bubbles are coming like immigrants with dreams; riding along each wave but, upon arriving, realize it has been the journey not the destination which has marked their paths with purpose. Recalling the life they’ve spent, they give in to the nostalgia- that great pain of the homecoming- and having been dumped on the sand, slowly begin their eternal quest for a new, elusive home.
If you’re patient, you can wait for the swells to subside and sneak further into the plane of existence like a covert aesthete who’s mission is to see and know the full beauty of this God’s creation. If you wait, you can almost walk up to the turbulence where the waves trip violently and bash one another like brutes- a stone’s throw away- for just a moment before they recognize your infiltration and send the first of many urgent waves careening at you from which you must run. If you can, run backwards as the ace tries to nip at your toes and soon you’ll realize the true nature of the plane of existence; you must never stop moving for everything exists amid change. Nothing exists here on this plane that is not changing. To stay here on this plane of existence you must also change. To not change is to fall behind, to be carried away by the waves. But we seek to experience that moment; to capture it in our memory with the comforting but empty notion that the memory is what lasts; it does not. But we seek to be there, at that perfect moment when time stops, when the waves pull away like the Red sea and allow us to stand, transfixed, in perfect bliss and watch as the green light flashes and the sun slips beneath the dark curtain of the horizon and sinks dimly into the murky depths. Unbroken, we remain eternally transfixed.