Things are never
placid in the water. Even as the
calm, rythmic bobbing lulls you to sleep, currents flow, plates shift, and the earth shakes, churning the sea, adding
energy beneath the surface. And though it flows through you and carries you, it can wipe you out with a simple
twitch or scratch.
So as I look over these waters and take note of the stability and peace thriving on its surface, I wonder what wars, what disasters lie beneath.
I remember the land, firm yet crumbling below my aching feet. Solids are an illusion, absolutes a myth. I was born of the land, but starving runts aren't strong enough to push their way to the mother's breast. The land practices natural selection. No place for a runt.
I remember the air, fluid and free. I stood upon my bridge with resolve and dreams and confidence, until the night the storm hit... it was the end of me...
The storm... the hurricane... whatever happened to it? The moment the water embraced me, the deluge seemed to disappear, evaporating into the night sky. But what has happened since that moment? Nothing! I can't remember a thing! Are my memories a dream, or is my continuing life? Is existence full, significance and meaning permeating every second? Or is it empty, calm, monolithic, static?
In every direction, the water sits, majestic and all-powerful, assimilating the dead and holding up the living. How could the world be any different? Heaven's a prison, and I think I like it that way. But with a tormented call, the gull in the sky tells me land is near, and the fear in its eyes tells me this is only the eye of the storm. I must prepare.