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.