Pink Summer Storms

In my dream, a great salmon-colored sea of slime and muck slapped and gurgled against the jutting rocks along the shore.

Deep currents ran beneath its surface. Even while standing on the cold sand, where only the thinnest layer of the tide could brush my toes, I could feel the ageless, eternal, pull.

The undertow runs down to a place of irrevocable return. Tucked back in to the bottomless pants pocket of the world.

"Slimy sea whose name has long been forgotten! What do you have to teach me? What will your roaring chorus stir and awaken in my own oozy depths?"

A pause

and then

"I am listening!"

But the sea of slime did not respond. So I spoke again.

I shouted, "You are the great salty pink sea of ooze! And I am a walking collection of dust. I am here to return the things you may have left in me by mistake."

And as the waves crashed and receded I gave to the sea my love, fear, dreams, wishes, emotions, and words and words and words. They all sank.

That could be a lie. Maybe you can't give anything to the sea. Maybe you can't return it. It's all stuck inside and can't get out.

Or maybe the darkest depths empty right back inside yourself. And maybe there's some other stuff in there too. Something new that got caught and dragged along. Good things certainly stem from movement.