Still on the human journey

Written June 3, 2009

The sigh of the ocean, like the escaping breath of one who has found his way back home. Pieces of earth and sky comingled with the fragments of animals and plants, all colliding in peaceful harmony, and all wrought with sensitive meaning. I travel home with a pocket full of shells.

All thoughts are dwarfed on the beach. Impressions carried home, sprinkling the mind-space they occupy with sand, are fleeting; paler than remembered by the great sea, as fragments of shells.

Ebbs of creativity have been released, as if some secret is revealed that yes, I really do love being alive. A tired body and a gurgling, bubbling spirit I am possessed of this trip, and all eyes look forward. To release such tender miseries of old, such things that have never been given the comfort of open speech is, to me, as rejuvenating as hours of sleep. For it proves once more that I am merely human; a living, breathing, feeling and emoting human that bears upon its unseen skin many, if not innumerable, tattoos and badges of experiencing. That I can still feel vividly certain emotions after many years is no longer alarming. Rather, I see it now like a testament to a living happening, one I would embrace the sweet closure of.