The ocean scars the coast across a body - a lone, weak human spread between the land and the wake - he holds on to the sand, struggling against the tugs of the dark void of unknown suffocation. It terrifies him. There was a time when he had a rope to hold on to. It was strong and faded into the distant forest at the edge of the beach. In to the unknown, but nonetheless a place where he wanted to go. Less people were there because it was a place to be desired. For the majority floated in the sea, treading constantly to stay afloat, traveling where the ocean's currents dictated. If you were on land, you traveled your own direction; and you didn't have to work so hard to stay afloat.
But between these two places - the land and the sea - is the beach. This is where the struggle is forged by many who dream of better places. Laying on their stomachs, fighting for oxygen like washed up fish in the shallows, these people risk their lives to claw at the dry sand - to hold the land in their hands. Freedom smells like salt; but they'll dehydrate if they fight too long on the beach - they must progress or recede.
He had a rope. His father had threw it to him. But the tide receded - pulling him out. The rope was far away now, and he didn't know if he could make it until the tide brought him back up. There was always the option to stand up - to walk - but he'd never done it by himself. He didn't know how, so he crawled. The sand was wet and loose - and the current had sent him to a part of the beach that was steep - it was difficult.
Not only that, the current had a history of taking him places that would make it more difficult for him to tolerate a place such as the beach. Fuck the current. This beach is killing me.
