Whenever I see a large mass of humanity in one place I like to think that I am a bug that can fly into ears and jump from one of these stranger’s beautiful synapses to another greedily digesting their thoughts. I wonder, behind stalwart countenance of these beach goers what lurks in the murky darkness of their brain’s membrane.
Did they hurt someone they loved? Did they do it because they needed to know that someone cared enough about them to be damaged by their misgivings. Do they, when sinking their toes into the cool sand of high tide, think about the things they left undone: the lovers left clothed, the lies they lived and the greatness they never realized?
And finally, the tide returns and as the water licks their feet do they yearn to melt into it crying, “Yes: I am flawed and bruised. My soul is a wrecked, wretched shell, but incorrigible I am not.”
