Today I went down to the sea. A flurry of frustration was trapped in my head, and the atmosphere was almost electric with stagnation. I had to go. Down to where the land tumbles apart into sea-dark stones. Down to where the water breaks white and the air tastes like the salted pages of Treasure Island. Down to the sea.
Soft gray clouds were rolling down with me, surging silently over the palm trees, trailing off like an unfinished sentence into the horizon with closed fists of unwept rain. We are alike, the rainclouds and I.
I found myself stuck on the shore, but further still, down on the very surface of the sea, were a group of men, surfing the ridges of the deep, calling it play, this feat of walking on water. They have feet that can float.
Moments like these, I wish I could paint with something more than words. Though it might take me decades, I would search the world for pigments like those I see in this sulking steel-like surge. The heart and soul of blue, of turquoise, of ocean.