The beach. The rocks. The fine sand and gravel beneath the feet. The feel of sand slipping away from under the soles, that of sand getting washed away with water. The sound of the waves. The gurgling of the sea…the sun beating down on the bodies, mellow, sometimes a bit harsh.
The ‘feel’ of listening to the nature, the wind and the water playing a merry game between themselves, unbeknownst to the people splashing about at the water’s edge, unbeknownst to the kids flying colourful kites, swaying their little, lithe bodies as the kite dances to the winds’ music…unbeknownst, to us who break into a smile watching the waves’ display, watching the kids’ play, sifting through our fingers, fine grains of sand, smooth, yet coarse, simple, but holding the secrets of time… I wonder what the rocks by the sea shore would say, if they are gifted the power of expression, the kind which is understood by humans. They lie, silent witness to the happenings of the world around them. They know the birds that circle them, they know the scents that the winds bring to them. They know the stories of the oceans as they all meet, they hear, quietly, the secrets of the people adoring the sea face, their desires, ambitions, shortcomings, failures, and perhaps smile to themselves, as they know that the people, as their worries, will be lost in eternity, and one day, cease to be.
The damp but firm rocks, barriers against the unforgiving sea, collude the ocean itself. Beckoning, yet mysterious, protective yet capable of unleashing terror, holding in its belly the years long gone by; hundreds of years that have been, and the hundreds that will be.
Looking at the vast expanse of water, and the sky above, the clouds, moving towards the meeting point, the horizon, thoughts cease, and the mind falls into a pattern of enjoying what was before nothing existed. Perhaps the horizon isn’t a limitation, perhaps it is only what we can see, versus what actually is. The sea, the sky, the fine grains of sand – inspirations, always.