|More from Typhoonmaster||Adventure||PG-13||See Comments||Subscribe|
June 26, 2013
The ocean always seems to calm me down. I think it's something about the scent of the air. The salt water makes the air smell sweet and inexplicably fresh. Maybe it's the rolling pattern of the waves, breaking and washing ashore, wiping the sand clean and smooth. The ocean continues on in this way, never really changing, never really caring about what goes on outside. Every now and then, someone will walk along the surf, leaving footprints in the wet sand, but the waves will always wash those prints away as if nobody had been there at all.
My footprints trailed me as I quietly walked beside the waves, the cool water tickling my ankles now and then. I didn't really know where I was going, or how long I would walk, but I didn't care; I had a lot on my mind, and I needed to sort things out. I guess I'm at a point in my life where I'm both excited and nervous at the same time. On one hand, I can't wait to go out into the world, free to make my own decisions, free to meet new people and create my future. On the other hand, I don't know if I'm ready for all that responsibility and pressure. What if I fail? Nobody will be there to pick me up if I fall. As I continued along that strip of sand, I realized the ocean is a lot like life.
Early in the morning, before the sun came up, I thought about these realities. At least I think they are realities. Oh, it's early morning because I couldn't sleep at all, and I didn't see any point in lying in bed just to stare at the ceiling. Focus. Back to my epic metaphor. We are all like pieces of driftwood, floating around in the ocean. Sometimes life is mellow and easy going: everything works out. Other times, life takes everything away from you, breaking and battering you down like the waves crashing on the cliffside. That's when you ask yourself, "what is the point of all this?" What is the point of life?
Well, if life is like the ocean, and we are pieces of driftwood, then I'm not too optimistic. I don't want to float around forever, not knowing my destination, powerless against the waves. Is there such thing as fate? Is it predetermined? Can we choose our paths in life? Do we actually make a difference in the world? I glanced back at my trail of footprints. The whitewash foam crept over the prints and they faded away. Maybe our lives will be washed away like footprints in the sand, forgotten. In the grand scheme of things, we are actually small, tiny, and inconsequential to the ocean that is life. I hate to say it, but life, like the ocean, doesn't acknowledge our existence once we have been washed away. People will come and go, but life goes on.
Well that sucks doesn't it! Life just...doesn't matter? That's when I stopped walking and sat in the dry sand to the side of the waves. People matter. The world matters. I'd like to think I matter, too. I sifted through the shells and stones washed up next to me, pretty little pebbles and broken bits. Even after we have gone and passed, we exist in memories, in the things we've done, and in the people we've affected. The ripples of the water touch over everything. The world is so vast, and time is so short. I'm not going to figure out the meaning of life by sitting in the sand and picking up shells.
For the collective works of the author, go here.