The sky was charcoal, smeared gray and black, and that bumpiness made the waves more assertive in stature. The midday whistles that relayed order between beacons of undersold decency had slumped aside for the emergence of a low rumbling blockade that slapped me from all angles, as if I was aligned with the uprising from the stolen shore. My entire form was a single sheet of wet cardboard. It was night and it was certain…no one else felt the need to grieve. Not even an assumptive pair of eyes, that I forced myself to disbelieve. For arguments sake, even if something or someone had wanted to be present, there was nothing from me that could possibly be worth studying. It took more than flesh and bone to enhance another’s narrative. Sure, I was educated, but limited with actual qualifications that made my lines everlasting or my looks desirable. And yet, when that notion became only a soft crackle, like a vinyl record that had run out of words and melodies to entertain, I missed them as brothers who had gotten married, had their kids and happily moved their time zones far away. I played that thought back again, and again, found that internal patterns and constraints were no longer linear or brave. I would be dry soon, even if the tide was rising. The best tracks were merely hidden, like the needle found, boredom was an uneven trade.

Writing affords me the opportunity to explore the deepest caverns of the brain and blend those discoveries with my world’s current purpose, or wander off in search of future scenes. There is nothing more rewarding then tying loose words together until what you have created no longer needs you to be believed.

In the eight or so years of our relationship, I often hid the fact that I was here as an observer, and was technically not permitted to interject my thoughts or display any notable biases. Sometimes, I found it difficult to smother my varying levels of disdain. I found sanity and forgiveness inside of cupboards and underneath shelving. Contrary to the thick opinions that carved passageways throughout the first house, I was regularly amused at the results, these spectacles grew to such a continuous occurrence that I counted them as hobbies and friends. Still, there was nothing too serious to qualify as trepidant, until the time the outcome felt perpetual- an indifferent, but predictable mistake. So I hunkered down and thought about the mementos that I had left beyond the lawn . To be clear, it was my choice and I will continue to abide by that decision. The bed was never made, the bathroom was never clean and the dishes were always stored in the bottom of the sink. I was needed and that made waiting on various transmissions difficult and dull, at a bare minimum I could certainly tug the corners of the crumpled sheets. And then eventually, in a structure that had an additional floor, I was able to saunter up the stairs and rest upon a half wall, where above the floor to ceiling windows, even the setting sun bowed beneath me, I imagined I was equal to the wind. One day I was proven wrong and now I watched the tidal pool and the stump of a worn tree. The man was sitting, he looked worried, deflated even, I knew him well enough to describe his demeanor as rough. My feet felt warm and sturdy, and perhaps I could nudge him along, of course I would first suggest my perspective, I surmised this could be suitable for an audience to applaud. But what did I really know? The last time -it was off putting, and now here we were, two old friends that could no longer conjure what each sought in a mutual feeling of circumspection. So, I left him there and thumped my head. I promised to check back, and wondered if my origins were still leafy and his thoughts of me profound. I heard a branch snap to my rear and I scurried towards everything that was vast, and only wide open. There was an elevated railway bridge in the distance. Tomorrow, I would learn to swim.

I rocked back and forth upon the cylinder that was the interim summit of the large piece of driftwood. The beach was under less than a foot of water which made it that much more tragic, despite the current conditions, it had almost managed to hang on. Without a proper cushion, my tailbone infuriated my lower spine by forcing the bones to unnaturally bend. Looking once more at the beach, I supposed that everything had its season. At least the sea was clear which made the sand pink and shaded the water yellowish-brown, perhaps even golden. In the wind, I felt the weight of my feet preparing to snap the black limbs that came together forming my sturdy seat. Much like being atop an aging uncle, I hoped that I could easily be bucked if I was beginning to weigh too much. I lifted my legs and curled my kneecaps into to my stomach, stopping short enough to be able to balance a tray of food, if there had been the need to do so. The railroad tracks were still above ground, and still barely dry, but they lead towards the wet unknown, it seemed that everything was angled in that direction. No matter the symbolism, they would one day be slimy and beautifully wrapped in seaweed and other naturally occurring stages of decay. I was a few pounds over 200, in all accounts, the word physique could be used in sentences that contained my name. I shifted once more, straightening my legs until I felt my entire weight in my lower abdominals. There was no lighthouse nor ships nor pods nor schools. Discomfort did not always lead to dramatic imagery or literary escape. I adjusted once more, and sat perfectly straight and I felt able to eat again, should the opportunity present itself. Carefully, I lowered my feet into the cool water, just because I was not braced by solid ground, did not mean that I was exempt from stumbling too.