I love the ocean for being a witness to the voyages of the conquests for civilization when flight was still exclusive for birds.
The sand and tan may not last long in my skin, but the words the beach gave me will always be a Rorschach test: open for interpretation, pooling in blots of ink, and an evaluation of the psyche.
The sea will always hold more secrets than the sky. We have always envied the avian species, but not the icthuses. We’ve reached the moon, but we never have penetrated the womb of the deep ocean.
But reach for what you can touch, regardless of the stretch, for some things are meant only for the nerves. Lust for the embrace of Sol. After all, what is infinity? Like the horizon set upon water, kissing the sky. Boundless. Smooth. Not flat, you’re not going to fall off its edge or lack thereof.
Make prints in the sand, though brief. Talk with the air, though filtered. These are the spoils of the wars of gods and men, the peace in the midst of chaos and discord for the sake of the vanity validation, the ego emancipation, and the anthology of myth of the heavens.