How strange that at this picture*, I am actually at a beach. I’ve missed sunset, but the sky is still blushing over the Olympics.
People are out here, living: frisbee, volleyball, even two children playing tag with a dog. And I sit here alone, and wonder when the pain will end.
The once soothing waves now seem to be repeating a mantra of “death, death, death.” I’m half waiting for them to engulf me. Hoping. Did I use that word? Yes. Hope only makes sense when the situation is hopeless, to paraphrase Greeley. And what is it exactly I’m hoping for? It’s too late now.
A boy just threw a chunk of wood into the water. It bobbed, was tossed, then repeated the process. It’s slowly working its way up the beach. Why does that make me cry?
1995-0426
*the opposing page of the journal is a photograph of a beach, the tide in.