I desire the beach—crushing sands beneath bare feet, listening in on the endless conversation of wave vs shore. I’ve been there many times but retreat each night. It is with the changing seasons that I fall far back into the cold warmth of my home. And when time sheds its skin snake-like, I return once more, closer to the ocean, closer than the sun returning to heat the Heavens, and I lay angel faced toward the blunt white clouds. 

This is has been my life for the better part of 15 years. The beach is where I feel like i’m with everyone else. It connects the vast network of personal touch. On a screen I’ll find myself reflected on the sun kissed young men. I’m away, boxed–they are too, but it’s not the same.

That is the one problem with real life: you cannot stop time, nor can you project yourself in slow motion like the films. Ideal happiness? That would be standing in the sunset on a warm day, but in slow-motion. Not to stop time, but to experience the moment in a dramatized way. I supposed the wind would have to stop as well, and the waters natural progression. Thus, my ideal moment is stopping nature. Because it feels impossible to exist in nature simultaneously while nature exists within the Earth. There are moments, flashes really, where it feels like we accomplish it. Maybe it’s a great song playing at an exact moment (I should state these moments are often unplanned, in fact i don’t believe they can be planned at all), or perhaps its a burst of creativity that propels the writer, subject: I, into the work, nee, into the idea of work. Because the idea of something is often better than the idea itself.

Think back to your favorite memories. Think now to the times you re-create then, or attempt to. You remember glimpses of pure ecstasy, but when the recreation happens you’re suddenly noticing the black headache you’ve had since waking up. Your mind, occupied by the real-work; bills and work. Stresses ruin the real moment. Stresses will disperse though; time and memory, and for that you end up with those perfect moments. In fact, I can think of my own re-creations that have actually been bumped into an important moment in my life. I know that in the moment they were marked by fears and anxieties, but now, looking back into my past, I see them as great moments of Kingdom. And I wonder if it is because my stresses from when I was 23 were minuscule, unimportant burdens of the age—and now at 28 my stresses are real-worldly. But how will I feel at 30? Will I remember the stress of working a dead-end job with no end in sight or will I remember this job as a freedom. 

I envy those that can age gracefully, truly believing their best years are ahead of them. For my cynical side, i believe our best years are in the moment. But it all goes back to not being able to procure them—to capture them or truly live inside them. Again, nature is to blame.

Take nature’s cough; the wind that blows the curtains. How can you harness it? Feeling it slip between your thighs as you stand defiant. Slipping though, always. Never firm. The sunshine is the same. This morning I was warm as the sun spotlighted my apartment, now, 4 hours later, I feel the chill of Winter, the cold wind presses into my shoulder blades as I turn 180 from the windows into my work. But it’s not work, is it?

I wonder about the George Orwell’s often. I guess I should clarify… I wonder about Zadie Smith too and Danez Smith and sometimes a figure like Jesse Armstrong.

How do they exist in a real plain with the rest of us? Truly. How did they obtain their groceries? Did they ever indulge in some personal sins? I think of Zadie often. Ms. Smith. I’m a huge fan, having never read her fiction, only her thoughts. Maybe it’s because i’m too afraid, or maybe i want to save it for when I feel “older.” — I wonder about what she’s doing right now. This exact moment. Is she perhaps feeling ill from a bad oyster? Is she writing at her laptop, silent, eyes wide? Maybe she’s doing laundry, though it feels unlikely. Not that she’s above doing laundry, more like she doesn’t actually exist to do it herself. That’s not to say she’s not real or should be less validated, on the contrary, I think her status as writer/public figure is God-like. We cannot see, but we believe.

I wonder too of the lonely walkers I drive past on my morning commute. They aren’t untouchable like Zadie Smith. They are right there. I could hit them if I wanted to, or I could pull over and talk to them. Two extreme options that I hope exist for me.