Saturday, July 25, 2009

deep dark

 I've tried (and failed), sober, and drunk, to explain my fascination with and affinity for all things concerning the ocean and the living things one might find in and around it. I've been mocked for it, praised for and, and I'm sure thought childish for it (by my own admission as well). In the past, I've tried to forcibly steer my interest in other directions, which has obviously yielded a more well rounded general interest in my world, but still the sea has maintained it's hold on me, and I've finally succumbed to its gravity. I find the word "intoxicating" not only romantic and somewhat poetic when I speak about the sea, but also incredibly apt. I've catalogued a number of significant changes in the way I perceive and relate to the ocean, both physically and emotionally, and I feel I would not be remiss to equate this with the changes one undergoes in any human relationship. I have often felt afraid of the sea, but rarely because of the turmoil of the weather, or  the poisonous, venomous and ravenous creatures it contains. In reality, it is the simple unknown, the vastness of its reaches, the depths of its mysteries, that stop my heart, the same way a velvet dark moonless night once did in my childhood (and still, on occasion, gives me cause for great trepidation upon venturing into it.) I'd like to think that there's saltwater in my veins, and I used to daydream about the endless freedom a mermaid might enjoy, but here in the midst of the papery dry air and dusty, dehydrated flora, I feel a longing that cannot be suppressed. And so, as childish as it may seem to cling to my precious few memories of beaches and coasts once visited, I find that whenever I set pencil to paper, nothing comes to mind as quickly or as frequently as the many wonders and, indeed, terrors I discovered there. 

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