Deftly

On Wednesdays, it’s the sand that turns my stomach. On the beach, the waves are an echo of disaster long conceived, deep vibrations beneath the surface of what makes the world seem appealing. The shells are the fragments of a life I used to cherish, a world I used to own – a map of the left turns and pitfalls, drawn in crayon on manila paper.

My life is woven with as much intricacy as you would expect for a five-year-old. I am an alcoholic and a murderer of ideals – drunk on mirror images bent by pressure and time, and keen to feel the warmth of someone’s great ideas slipping away from them. It’s more simple than you think, my life.

That separation, the peel of waxy paper from adhesive-backed print, is each moment of my life, stripped from my body and my soul with each hammer fall of machinery keeping track of the universe. And how’s that working for them? What’s a measurement of time in a universe that is infinite?

You want numbers? You want age?

I’m five years old somewhere out there. On this beach, somewhere else in the void, I’m eons old and bitter.

I always come back to the sea, blistered and blind, but content.

It’s not the water that makes me smile, it’s the gravity holding it all in. The sea is like my potential, tethered by physics measured by man-sized motes of nothing.

If it ever got away …

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