The rage of the sword behind the tranquil fury of the pen feels like trying to make solid ground out of sand. Only having what can be held. It all meaninglessly slips through the fingers but remains nonetheless; forever there in crevasses of the mind to remind the writer of the things unchangeable. Only ever able to truly hold onto the pieces not meant to be held; it burrows painfully down into tender flesh.
A plesent beach that, for anyone else viewing is inspiring and lovely, feels like an angry maw of ocean coming to swallow whole anything in its wake from the author's point of view.
The emotion behind the scene could take a sailor to their death.
Lightning strikes a shore, creating glass that is so easily broken yet so beautifully, naturally exquisite. It is a crime to break it down into sand once more, yet this is what the ocean of life is made to do.
It is not without its own violence that the glass does shatter. Failing to hold the weight of the sea for the first time, pieces descends onto the soft landing of the sand dampening the blow just a little. The past dictates how much sand will be under this exquisite wonder. And the future will turn this wonder into more sand, with time.
Like this scene, the ebb and flow of life is that of the beholder and the beholder alone.
I hope that you see a wonderful time at the beach, and not a tired endless cycle.
I hope you find peace where I have found chaos.
