A Rolling Regret

I roll over, spitting up salt water on the soft white sandy shore, as the rolling waves violently thrust me forward. I grasp a clump of sand and hoist myself further up into the shore so that my entire body is out of the water. Water is still choking me and coming up through my throat, and in a quick attempt to rid of it, I begin to cough violently. I am somewhat relieved of the salt water down my throat, and I roll over so that my back is on the sand, and stare at the sky. It isn't the first time I've come here. In fact, I've come here all too often, and every time for the same, undying reason I can never get rid of. And still, on the tiny island in the middle of the ocean, with its white sandy beach and tall palm trees, and a cloud to always cover the brutal sun, I can still feel the pain tugging at my chest, like a restless irritation that can not go away. And yet, I can not remember what is was that I was trying to get away from. I can only feel the compression in my heart that reminds me something was there.

Still, I try to dismiss the pain. I rise to my feet and limp my way under a palm tree, then sit back down, my tired legs sprawled out in front of me, and my head lazily tilted to a side so that my chin rests on my shoulder. With small forlorn eyes, I stare at the waves, how they come and go so hurriedly, the water excitedly roaring towards the shore, suddenly to burst in a wild explosion of white and recede as slower and more painfully than it came. Recede with regret, with second thoughts. Insecurities that can never be won back or fought for, or changed. It recedes reluctantly, but watches the next wave come and try again, watching, hoping, that maybe that next wave will make it. Perhaps the next wave will stay, as waves should. But the last wave watches wearily as the wave after it recedes. Reluctantly. Slowly. Painfully. And so the first wave, after watching the one after it fail, and the one after that fail, turns away, falling back into the ocean and dying, never to know what could have happened, and forever left to wonder.

Rubbing my eyes with my pruned fingers, my dry throat clenches and a tear falls down my cheek. I remember why I'm here. It's a long story, and not a pleasant one. It's a story of regret. Of lost dreams. And this place I am in, it's where they all end up in. All of the lost dreams of the world, all of the lonely souls whose hearts clench with sorrow or pain, and who recede and die without ever making their mark. They all end up in the ocean. Except for me. The ocean spat me up, and here I am again, sitting on the shore, good as new with youth in my face, watching dreams fall before my eyes. And I wonder why it has given me another chance. I know, however, this is not the first chance I've been given. I remember this place, vaguely, as one remembers small snippets of long ago childhood memories. A foot jumping on a rain puddle, water splashing up into the air; the red plaid table cloth of an old picnic blanket; or the young eyes of a lost love, wandering hopelessly for the one who has so boldly hurt you.

Stumbling, I rise to my feet and stare out at the cloudy sky before me. So much distance, so much horizon, so far to go. I can not waste my time.

In the Middle of Freedom

I am standing on the surface of a lake, the cool water chilling the bottoms of my feet, my eyes observant as to my surroundings. As I survey the area around the lake, I lay eyes upon a tree with no leaves. I can not see well enough, and I can not tell whether the tree is dead or dying. However, this tree is in the middle of the lake, away from the edges of the shore, where thick brush and life grow; the greenest cacti blossoming with its bright juicy summer fruit, and tall trees heavily supplied with numerous healthy branches and laden with simple yellow flowers. All along the shore of the lake, these gorgeous walls of green grow plentifully, its colors so bright that they reflect like carnival lights upon the water's edge. And yet, there is the simple, two branched tree alone in the middle of the lake, so thin and so barren that it only stands as a mere silhouette in the presence of the setting sun behind it.

My heart drops with pity for the lonely tree, out in the middle of nothing but the vast body of water which surrounds it; bearing nothing beautiful to show off, nothing but the mere bark which keeps it standing once all hint of decoration is violently stripped off. Silently, I make my way towards the tree, each step I take sending ripples throughout the water. Once I reach the tree, I extend my hand out and feel its bark. It is smooth, like a polished kitchen counter, and my hand runs across it quickly, with no struggles or pain. This tree is not dying, and yet, it is not quite alive. Suddenly, it all begins to make sense inside of my brain.

I feel ashamed to have ever pitied the tree as the smooth bark begins to tell its story. For on the shore, the tree was trapped, crowded, unable to move and feel the world and what it meant to everything that lived there. And though it was only on the shore that the beautiful trees lived, filled with blossoming flowers and fruit and the greenest, richest leaves on their branches, this tree had sacrificed all of it so that it may be free. And nobody ever admires that tree. Nobody ever comes to that tree and picks a fruit off its branches. Nobody ever goes to that tree and sits under it for shade, or takes pictures next to it. Nobody ties a swing to the branches of that tree, and nobody gives up their time to climb it. The world never even notices that the tree in the middle of the water is there alone, and still standing, and still hanging on to the small ties of life it has left so that it may experience its freedom. But to this tree, none of it really matters. None of that is important.

And so, I stand next to the tree, and sink down into the lake water, just deep enough so that my toes can touch the bottom and my nose is still above the surface. I stand there, and as I stand there, with the soft ripples of the water gently pulling my body this way and that, and the sun setting right before my eyes, I feel at peace. And nothing else in the world matters anymore when I am standing there in the water, because in this place, right next to this tree as wise as the mountains which tower behind it, I am free.