I remember summers on the beach in Daytona, sea-foam on the night-shore, wind on my cheeks. I can remember the taste of those days, sweet, bitter. I can never forget the salty-smell of the water lapping on the shore, the waves crashing, redoubling, riding forth again into the barren desert of abandoned coolers, umbrellas, and towels. Those were the days you could drift out to sea, forget your name, start over as you baked in the warm sun, enveloped in the sweet scent of sun-tan lotion, the pitter-patter of raindrops as they dissolved into the wide ocean, where names didn't matter. Where who you were was simply the sound of your breath. The in, the out, the conjunction with the rhythm of the endless sea. When the boundaries between you, me, and the sky melted into each other.
When I was the sea, when the sea was me.
But summers do not last forever; the truncheon of the everyday is overwhelming. The rain pitter-patters. Rain, that was the one thing always consistent. It was neither here in my body nor out there in the harsh reality of ever-engulfing puddles. Oceans of the gutters in which the singular, individual raindrop is dissolved in an indistinguishable mass of conformity. Does the raindrop remain a raindrop? Does it retain any self-hood? How does it feel to be erased, the boundaries fractured into a conglomerate of identical uniformity. But what is a raindrop after all? Perhaps I have mapped my own apathy and loss on a inanimate object. But, is any object truly inanimate? Does not the droplet screech as it falls helplessly from the sky? Do not those droplets form our living oceans: ebbing, flowing, eroding the shore, relinquishing the tide? Do not the rivers carve the canvas of our landmasses, the canyon's scars on the beautiful face of the earth: defaced, inscribed, mangled by the force deemed carelessly inanimate? Is it not the water of life that flows through human veins--my veins-- my life-force, validated as animate, living, powerful, that without this force, this water, would wither and fail. And beyond this inevitable end the water that once supported my liveliest animation will live on beyond my decay, flowing, trickling, living far beyond the twinkling of my existence.
Who then is really alive; who then is really immortal?