Waves are regenerative, destructive. They refuse to bend and be at the mercy of a vast, still ocean, yet they are who they are because of the will of the moon and wind, heat and not-heat. They dash rocks upon rocks, carving slowly away at cliffs and caves. They can smooth away jagged edges of glass.
The waves in the Mediterranean glimmer with flecks of golden sand. I've seen it myself. The wealth - and desire - of nations have sunk in the waves, finding a quiet berth in still caverns at the bottom of the sea.
How many dreams drowned in the sea? How many were born amidst the waves? How many of them lived in the crests and the foam?
They arch their backs, fulminating and growing, bending always upward in a steady unshakable, intensity before ultimately rejoining the sea it so ardently had tried to flee. To be a wave is to be forever yearning, never to reach and touch, and always to return to its formative substance.
Does a wave move forward, then? Or does it doom itself to never leave the sea?
For brief lapses of time, a wave turns to vapor to cloud to rain that touches my upturned face, but we all return to the Earth in a cycle of life and death, so too will this water come back to Earth and be invested back to the sea, all cycles touching and moving each other like gears.
Touching and moving each other like waves, particle to particle, droplet to droplet.
Waves are stories. Regenerative, destructive, always building after germinating, striving and cresting, only to ultimately return to the material of its making. I make, create, while the "me" within you, our shared humanity, sees my story, hears it, reads and absorbs it, an organic osmosis. So the story ultimately reaches its own substance, my story, which was striving for a unique distinction from the sea of me's and you's around me.
So we touch and move each other, particle to particle, droplet to droplet.
The waves in the Mediterranean glimmer with flecks of golden sand. I've seen it myself. The wealth - and desire - of nations have sunk in the waves, finding a quiet berth in still caverns at the bottom of the sea.
How many dreams drowned in the sea? How many were born amidst the waves? How many of them lived in the crests and the foam?
They arch their backs, fulminating and growing, bending always upward in a steady unshakable, intensity before ultimately rejoining the sea it so ardently had tried to flee. To be a wave is to be forever yearning, never to reach and touch, and always to return to its formative substance.
Does a wave move forward, then? Or does it doom itself to never leave the sea?
For brief lapses of time, a wave turns to vapor to cloud to rain that touches my upturned face, but we all return to the Earth in a cycle of life and death, so too will this water come back to Earth and be invested back to the sea, all cycles touching and moving each other like gears.
Touching and moving each other like waves, particle to particle, droplet to droplet.
Waves are stories. Regenerative, destructive, always building after germinating, striving and cresting, only to ultimately return to the material of its making. I make, create, while the "me" within you, our shared humanity, sees my story, hears it, reads and absorbs it, an organic osmosis. So the story ultimately reaches its own substance, my story, which was striving for a unique distinction from the sea of me's and you's around me.
So we touch and move each other, particle to particle, droplet to droplet.
