The sea is dark, grey, and angry. The colors blue and golden don’t jump out in my mind when I see her. She doesn’t look welcoming; a bright sight. Instead, I see ash colored sands lined with sharp-edged rocks to keep strangers at bay. She is always grey, with white foam churning on the surface; accompanied by an even darker sky, dotted with dark clouds and flashes of thunder that rumble and roar. She looks like a monochromatic piece of art, like a long forgotten photograph tucked between the pages of an old poetry book.
She is somber. I could say she’s angry. Because I see anger there, yes. But her anger lacks something. Intent, I think. Like she doesn’t want to be angry, but since it’s the only thing she feels, she accepts it. You have to take what you can get. Anything’s better than feeling empty.
She is waiting. I think the sea is waiting for hope. But this waiting is not a conscious waiting. It’s existing. Existence can be a form of waiting too, can’t it? She is waiting for the clouds to part, so that she can finally see the Sun again. She wants him to touch her, to caress her with his warm fingertips. Without him, she feels cold. Without him, she feels dead.
She feels lost. It’s strange, really. In a way, she is exactly where she should be. But lately, she has been feeling like there is more. Like the whole world is in on a secret that she is unaware of. She wants to go out there and seek it. But she’s rooted to the land she calls home. And she knows that leaving can be destructive, and that she might destroy everything in her path.
She feels empty. Is it possible to be so full yet so empty at the same time? The sea thinks it is. She’s filled to the brim. She holds so much more than she can handle. Yet, she feels empty. When you hold too much for too long, you stop registering it. It’s easier that way. Otherwise, its weight alone would pull you under. So you pretend for a while, until it feels like nothing. Like there’s a weight on your outstretched arms, but when you look down below, you see nothing. It doesn’t reduce the weight, it’s still as heavy, of course. But it makes the act of carrying it easier. You feel free of your burdens.
She is dying. It’s not visible. She is still holding, is still existing with a life force so potent, it baffles everyone. The waves are full of vigor, the undercurrents fierce. But beneath it all, she is slowly dying. Despite the dull grey, the sea looks alive; almost too strong to come to any harm, immortal. But swim beneath the surface and you’ll see death festering like a wound. She’s slowly disintegrating from the inside, being eaten away by her own self.
She is alone. It’s expected, really. When you’re so big, so vast, so endless, when you’re too big, even for yourself, how can you expect someone else to handle you? You appear so strong, so bold; full of a fevered frenzy. You make people run. Nobody wants to drown in you. Nobody wants to lose themselves in your endlessness. Because somewhere deep down they all know, that after all of this is over, you’ll still be standing, but they? They’d leave no trace.