It is quiet peace, the ocean, the sand and sun. A kind of peace I cannot find elsewhere. Under the sun, hidden beneath the sand and the sound of ocean, there is no room for repentance, no room for doubt, or thought. It is this kind of peace, irretrievable yet transient. It is a contradiction, this peace, deviant and unavoidable, a sort of trap.
Followed by the descend of seagulls, a warm, wind blows, drawing the sand to our bodies and faces, urging us to sleep, forget and be forgotten. Somehow, all becomes too easy and sleep becomes a beautiful sin. Is it not sin to be completely unaware of your existence, to give your mind and soul to the ocean, to step out of your body and walk in the water, to taste the salt on your tongue and drench yourself in desire? Is it not sin to weaken, and give yourself away to the waters that so temptingly allure you in?
But these are purely fiction, words of the imagination, for in reality, there is only the soft sand, the earthly sun, and the ocean that stretches beyond your understanding. The reality of life becomes this picture, and the mind and soul become one. When the two unite, distinguishing between fact and imagination, between reality and fiction is impossible, even pointless. Why should you stress the mind when there is an ocean bigger than your dreams stretched before you? Why should you have to decide when nature has defined itself for you?
I am lured into the water. I walk in it, barefoot, and watch the waves as they knock on rocks and shells. I have everything before me, and I am one with my mind and body. I need not to understand what is before me; I need no reason for the contentment and satisfaction and eagerness I possess. I take joy in this sin, in knowing I have all that I want, in wetting my feet, washing away the guilt and remorse I might have had in some time past. I wash away everything bad and negative, and sinfully inhale an erotic air of intoxication. The waves come and go, returning memories of childhood. I am a little girl, standing by the ocean with my little companions. We shout to the waves, “faster, faster!” We beg and sing for the ocean to bring us its strongest, biggest, fastest waves. It is a simple wish, and yet important. We jump in happiness and gaiety when the waves do come. We are happily frightened by this magical show before our eyes.
The wave is gone; I am back to my state of being. I have forgotten childhood once again. I stand, facing the everything that sparkles. In this zone between reality and fiction, I can be in peace. But once I step out, once I feel the sand, once I walk away, then there is a pen, and everything else is too real.
Someone calls my name.
Before I part from the everything, I see a little boy who makes sand dunes. He is incognizant of what is before him, of the everything he has and will never have again. He is happy in ignorance because he knows not of loss, or remorse, or pain, or jealousy, or cowardice or desperation, but of a joy that is his only, a joy of having little feet, little hands, little toys when everything else is big and frightening.
I have been called. I part, my feet feeling the burning sand. The meddling air of reality enters my lungs. My body feels one thing; I have yet to find my mind…