I wasn't listening to ocean yesterday. If I had perhaps the lull of blue-gray waves would have meant something to me. The way the sky began to crack from the weight of clouds full of sentiment my heart did not care to accept. Each crash tossed another sampling of broken lives upon the sands. It sat stained with the fragments of memories from centuries of shattered dreams.
No, I did not listen to those stories. Though the shimmer of what was caught my eye; a repetitive theme I'm ashamed to admit I missed. There was something about the air that was a bit too chilled and something about the manner that was a bit removed. I'm afraid you had to be there to truly understand, but then maybe the imagery will stick making my meaning clear.
On first consideration, you may miss it, but I didn't. It's always what isn't there...the ghost of ships haunted my mind even as the choppy waters held them in port. A piece of the puzzle often sitting in thought, realized only when you search the waves. Sometimes I fail to see what's right in front of me. My mind drags when revelation is near and the edges are rusty, partially from underuse.
This life lies shattered with the shells. Colorful pieces of brick-a-brack left on the shores to amuse the tourists. Three parts rolling as the waves crash relentlessly against the world-worn edges. Though the sand fills the cracks, the disconnect is obvious and wearing.
With time, there may be nothing left but the pretty images painstakingly laid out on pages no one cares to read, because they are just pieces; fragments of a story caught in the surf, rolling in the waves, worn at the edges...who really wants to take home the pieces?
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