I could spend weeks upon weeks by the sea and never get tired of how the sea refuses to stop kissing the shore, no matter how many times it is sent away.
I like to think of the sea as a silent lover. It’s fingers reach out to the edge of the shore apparently trying to hold onto the melancholy being of the sand like a nostalgic lover unwilling to let go.
Perhaps their story is a tragedy like Romeo and Juliet. Or perhaps it had similar plotlines to the stories detailed by Jane Austen. Or maybe they’re more of the quirky childhood lovers of the play explained by Thornton Wilder
He’s not a Romeo and she’s not a Juliet.
He’s not a Mr. Darcy and she is by no means an Elizabeth Bennett.
But He’s not a George Gibbs and She’s not an Emily Webb.
I think it’s a story all of it’s own, however.
As the creases of its vastness peak and fall, I watch it’s tragedy unfold.
The mountainous peaks seem to speak and call to the shore in the soothing monotonous tones.
It’s waves embrace the sand seemingly cooing out words of affirmation.
“I love you dearest.” It roars.
“It’s been much too long…” It seems to sigh.
And then it’s sent away.
Banished from the sand.
I watched, awestruck, as it’s thunderous roar turned to silence.
I saw the vastness subdue from it’s monotonous tones to soft silence.
And this repeated.
Over and over and over again.
The most beautiful part of their story is the way the sea returned every time it was sent away.
It’s love story is the same every time I happen upon it.
I hear the sea’s call and tones and I am readily reminded of it’s unceasing love and affection for the beauty of the shore.
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