The ocean grabs the words from my lips, taking them into the folds of its roil, until the churn of sand and froth at my feet mirrors the ceaseless battle inside my head.
Why ascribe poetry to unfeeling physics?
The ocean has its own sound, its own rhythm Marcus, so it cannot allow you to find your own. It gyrates and sings like a belly dancer behind a cloud of smoke, forcing you to move your thoughts to its music. A slow, inescapable seduction.
And a river leaves you standing on the bank, going by without so much as a flash of recognition in its mossy eyes.
And somehow your thoughts find direction, walking in its blue footprints.
Hesse gave his Siddhartha a river in which to find the meaning of life.
What would he have discovered on the seashore?
The river – making its way home.
show me where the sea begins
and I will tell you
where it ends.