“To him it is an ocean, unfathomable, and without a shore.” – William Godwin
I need to be here. The breeze taste of salt tang - warmth. I swallow huge gulps of air current like a piquant ambrosia sliding into the warm confines of stomach melt, savoring the breath of dry salt on wet lips like the rim of a margarita.
The smell is intoxicating, a sweet noxious sulphur of taffeta salt brine and baked sand.
Coarse granules wick across the fine hair on my arms, tickling tobacco paper thin coats of abrasion. My toes ooze down sinking in silt, battered by effervesce froth. A tendril of kelp sloshes around my ankle, tugging, daring me to follow the waves retreat back into the ocean. The shoreline reverberates down to my bones with each thunderous crash, thrumming a vibrato.
I close my eyes and listen to a child’s bubbly laughter, followed by slapped footfalls against wet sand racing away from galloping waves. A seagull caws from the air overhead. The ocean roars thrashing wave after wave against the shell laden coast. I hear her faint heartbeat as she sucks her current back like a child suckling a nipple. Music comes to me faintly from somewhere up the cliff, a sonata serenading the tempest.
Sand and salt buffet the heat of the day against my body - I need to be here.
I open my eyes and I’m back in the confines of my home, a thousand miles away from the nearest ocean. The rain beats a steady cacophony against the window, sliding down in streaming rivulets. Teal blue skies are now a hazard grey. Feeling a hard ridge pricking my palm I look down to find a lone sea shell and I smile.
The imagination of a writer can take you anywhere in the world; because of words I can ride the waves in the ocean of me…anytime I desire. In reality I haven’t seen them in years. - Indigo
Picture From Here