The sun set and the evening winds swept in. I sat on my blanket in the sand and stared out to the waves, and miles beyond that, to the horizon. Around me, the sand crabs woke up to scurry in the night, and I never did figure out what they did besides scurry – a lifetime of scurrying.
The waves crashed. It had been too long since I last saw the waves. The waves crashed. They beat the shore, then they retreated, and then they crashed to beat the shore again. (Ad Infinitum). I realized how much of an egotistical game we play – how big we make ourselves appear to be when we’re not. We can sit in our rooms, we can stare at our screens and pretend that we’re any number of things – such as intelligent, or insightful, but the truth at the end of the day is, the sun sets, the evening winds sweep in, and the tides always win.
So, some people go on vacation and feel inspired; they want to harness the energy they find. But I have come away with an unexpected view – I’m not sure I want to write anymore. I don’t know the extent of that – because here I am writing a paradoxical entry. As I sat on my blanket in the sand, something happened. I don’t know what, exactly, but my eyes became the oceans of the damned and I saw the death of myself. I saw myself walk out into the endlessness and become a sea creature of the nevermore. I saw all of the scurrying that I have done to get nowhere at all. My ten-thousand+ hours of art amounted to how to become invisible.
The beach became dark and flashlights turned on to appear like levitating indigenous species of the end-world. Groups of them glided in the distance and through the night. I stood and tied my blanket around my collar as a cape and moved up to the waterline. My cape wisped behind me and to the left. The waves crashed without an exact singular form, but they spoke a unified language. They spoke to me how they spoke to the first person who set foot on the sands. They said, we come, and we go – what do you not understand? And I thought, maybe I don’t want to write anymore.
But we turn home, and we scurry. We ask each other, “What delusion do you tie to your self-worth?” Then like the crabs that prepare for their night shifts, we go on – underneath it all, a hard-shelled function more than a choice. It’s an art of consistency even if it seems inconsistent to the individual observer.
“Where were you, Matthew?” they say.
I was looking for the experience of being alive but only ever ended up with a reflection.
Maybe that was the experience of being alive. Or maybe it is what life has become.
And then I was no more.