Sunday, November 25, 2012

The Boy on the Shore

The air smelled like the ocean. Like it always had every summery July morning by the mansion that overlooked the sea. The boy that lived there hated the scent and if it weren't for the dying sun, he wouldn't have tolerated walking down the beach at sunset when the scent was strongest. 

It is a magic scent, the ancients have said and the boy could only laugh at their ridiculousness. He was a boy of advanced thinking and such medieval follies were a waste of brain cells as compared to Nintendo or Physics or gaming capsules. He's simply admitted that some people are like that, rationalizing the unfathomable without even measuring logical reasons or explanations.

That particular afternoon, he frolicked farther than usual. The sun was buttery and salmon and its toasted tendrils swirled with the gray waters. He imagine holographic worms beneath the sea, consuming the light and glowing themselves in the process. He felt the waters rushed to the shore and he buried his fingers in the sand, slowly, lustfully, like fornicating for the very first time.

The sea is a mistress, malevolent and dreary, like Aunt Ugliana during her monthly visits.

He watches its waves crash on the shore, carrying with it its remnants: shells, abalones, corals, crabs and the breeze, that filthy breeze he inhales at the moment. In return the earth vomits to it pollution, dead dreams, despair, unrequited love and all the grime of human existence. The ocean accepts them all, enveloping the filth in its dreamy waves.

And just like all the others, he surrenders his desperation and metaphorical craps to the sea. Crashing his body to the foam, letting it lure him with its waves and drown him with its poisonous dreams of infinite oblivion.

It is always silent in the sea. The dead never speak.

"Perhaps that would explain the smell", he thought. And on his way home that summery July morning, he vowed to never see the ocean, ever again.

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