Drowning

Slowly, I wake up. At first, I’m only aware of the gentle murmurs of the breeze. The humid air weighs heavily upon me. I feel coarse sand against my cheek.

I notice after some time how the wind disturbs the peace, jostling the palm leaves, scattering sand over places it doesn’t belong. A thought finally crawls into my mind as the wind gathers more force: “I wonder if it’s going to rain?”

The mundanity of the thought brings me back to myself, and I become aware of my body, curled up in a foetal position. I must have fallen asleep on the beach like this. I gaze at the sea, not really knowing what I’m looking for.

I sometimes wonder what it feels like to be an unborn child. Fragile, weak, vulnerable – yet full of potential. Warm, and protected. Untouched, innocent. People seem to go all their lives looking for happiness, this innocence they leave behind at birth. Seeking the comfort of submersion in darkness and fluid seems to me a desperate, and primordially human thing to do.

At this hour of night, nobody is on the beach. I am in my own little world – a world that only exists until the conquering sunrise destroys it. Those few hours though, the early hours of the morn – they are my dominion.

I stand up and walk down to the water’s edge. The moon stares at me, a great luminous eye in the heavens, watching my every movement. The sea sighs and creeps up on me, tugging at my toes; playfully beckoning.

The tropical warmth of the fluid surrounds me.

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