The Reach

 

The waves roll ever gently up the pearl white sands of the beach, keeping a steady 4/4 time; the water grasping through my toes for the bottle between my feet. By the looks of the sun, I’m not far from being consumed by the kiss of Poseidon’s reach.

To my left a lone crab charges headlong- empty claws outstretched- against the breeze and into the surf, as if a part of natures’ orchestra, and late for the ceremony. It must be a hell of a thing to have all those legs and feel still yet a few steps behind the rest.

 I guess in some ways it’s not all that hard to relate. It seems to me that’s all life as we know it consists of these days; rushing into the breach, arms flailing, tie unkempt, with or without a cause- just instinct. Pure, raw, subconscious, instinct. And instinct much of the time, has no time for pleasure or peace, and if it does, it’s called a disease.

As I turn my gaze out to the greater sea, I take a breath of relief, exhaling and at once shedding, again, the chains of that madness that usually burdens me. Anchored just off shore, a yacht; the one I imagine myself setting sail on to find this thing, this place, or an embrace called Zen.

The world of men seems so far off and long ago now- like a lingering memory from adolescence that you don’t quite understand. I take another drink and wonder if Captain Morgan ever sat right here, thinking the same things. Maybe he buried some treasure beneath this very spot. These white sands, unmarred by the filth of man and progress, are treasure enough for me, but buried gold and aged rum is as always, tempting indeed for any man, even the hippies and the minimalist inclined, not that I claim either of those tribes or for that part, denounce them.

I see a lone figure topside, one of the few I chose to come with me; though I can’t tell just who it is. We all set sail to chase this manifest destiny, each for our own reasons. Some of us might be running. Some of us might be seeking, and others perhaps just… being.

Looking out upon that beacon of paradise, that symbol of home, set against the wondrous backdrop of the oceans vast, past all the ports of call this side of thousands of miles far from the prison-states and societies of tyrants and sheep past the setting sun on collision course with the stars and an oncoming storm, I let peace wash over me, unaware of the existence of time; until the bell of the Reach tolls “dinner time”, in unison with the horn of the taxi due to take me home; and then, the credits roll- and the rum is all gone. 

Reviews

[Marie]

Rhis is interesting. I was'nt going to scan it briefly and go; then somethng about the words caught my attention, and I read the whole thing.

[A.J.]

well thank you very much for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed it!