Another wave hits the shore. It scrapes the sand and I think that perhaps it’s wanting to be home. My mother always used to tell me that sometimes somethings that are a part of something don’t feel at home in the comfort of familiarity. Behind my precariously hooded eyes I dream of a tide – a call for help as subtle as our lives. We are a pensive tongue around a pensive mouth. There is so much to learn from the water, so much to swim into, unfathomable depths waiting to be seeped into our skin. I always thought of the ocean as a home, not mine but for something larger than the bones I live off. The sunlight dances on its surface and I think it burns something living underneath because I swear I hear the ocean cry. But if the ocean is a home, why do the waves run away from it only to be swept back in. I look around the brooding, bitter sand I stand on, it imprints my feet against my will – an invasion of privacy. And I understand. What surrounds us is not a home, these passing ecosystems are our refuge. We are never at home but never not at home. Comfort drives our escape.
The water seems clearer now, the waves calmer. A sultry death of curiosity feigns a victory. We suffice in our pretense.
