I’m officially beginning to feel burnt out by thematic offerings related to beaches, seas, oceans, water. It obviates this obsessive need to see and know the power of water/oceans/lakes/water as a creative tool for the use of acknowledging freedom, movement, clarity, cleansing. The water as simile, the metaphor of water for, quickly becomes trite in the mind of the disciplined writer, who, for the express interest of becoming better, writes daily from the urging of pre-written prompts. These water-themed ideas, perhaps, reconcile themselves through the sheer act of repetition because they are, after all, too often times utilized? And so, to get it all out of your system through the daily work of practice allows that clichéd theme its chance to be purged, making way for originality when the time comes to produce an actual piece of work. Who knows.
The cat peels itself from the interior warmth of the box within which he sleeps, stretches, only to return to the box in a new, presumably, more comfortable position. He sneezes and immediately begins to purr loudly enough to be heard from across the tiny space. A tisk of the tongue and the cat perks up to steadfast alertness. A treat has been offered. Smugly, he slinks slowly from his box and makes his way toward me. A gentle cooing, a request that I make good on my offer. He slithers his body, making sure every small piece of him touches some area of me, all around my ankles. The fur clings, desperately attempts to cajole more than one treat. He meows impatiently. The tone turns demanding. He sounds nasty. I retrieve an orange treat from his treat jar, break off a piece and hold it up for him to see. “Ready?” The cat stands at the ready upon only his back two feet and trills in acknowledgement. I throw the thing. Jumping, scratching, racing across the room, he darts in feral pursuit of the delicious scent. Another kissy noise. He hustles back toward me. We repeat the routine a few more times until the treat is gone. I hold up both hands in show that there’s nothing left. Another trill as he walks in a circle around his self. He sneezes three violent, consecutive sneezes. Asthma, I theorize. He gathers his thoughts with a shimmy and trots on over to his water bowl for more than a few quick laps.
When standing upon the shores of one’s own mind, the pulsating breeze of thought after thought is presented with two options: Follow or Forget. Do I fear that the breeze will cease at some point and so, pursue every worthless inkling down a path of delusion toward something truly great, or do I fear that the thought that sits before me is already so great that I absolutely do not want to forget it? Why is it fear at all? This letting go, this enjoyment of the breeze reveals itself to be less about now and more about whatever happens or comes after now. The unknown, the fear of it. An excitement or at least, a calm ought to accompany the understanding that upon the shores of the mind, there the water brings only the unknown. For to know the future would be to be something else entirely inhuman or perhaps more human. Again, who knows. Is the goal to know what the future holds and to ensure that that future unfolds or is avoided?
I’m doing an inadequate job of staying focused on the task. The sand wears away at the dead skin cells on my heels, making them smooth and young again. The ocean water splashes atop my feet with nourishing pulls on my soles. The sea breeze dries the tears as I cry mournful driblets at the death and loss of each thought despite whether or not the thought means anything to me; I hold on. Eventually, the tide and the breeze move on, and I survive; I let go; I thrive.