the beach

I was drowning in the din caused by too many cooks and the steam from their concoctions, so I got out of the kitchen.

I went for a walk on the beach and thought of nothing. I looked and smelled and felt, but it didn't mean anything to me. I didn't analyze. I wasn't actively connected to my surroundings.

The sky was tinted brown behind my glasses, and a flock of kites could only be distinguished from the gulls by their fluorescent tails. The thick salty air makes my hair expand. I could feel it writhing loose from the band holding it together. The sea left its foam to disintegrate along the sodden shore, and the course grains of sand that managed to stay out of the reach of the increasing tide worked to smooth away the calluses on my feet.

The crowd that day was made up of mostly young families and even younger couples. Each group was selfishly concerned; the families watched children while the couples cared only for their partners' form in the sea. The sound of their happy cries and words of caution and laughter were louder than the kitchen was but it's all incomprehensible against the surf's loud roar.

Even surrounded by the happy visitors, my solitude was endless. I didn't have to try to pretend to be happy or friendly or nice. I could walk and see and smell and feel and it didn't have to mean a thing to anyone, not even to me.

It felt good.