Post #7: Here is the angst

The beach is a magical place. The warm sand mixed with the inexplicably cold water is amazing. But it would be a dreadful bore if I were to go on and om about how painstakingly obvious it is that every-freaking-body loves the beach. No, I want the drama, the reflection, the teenage angst that wins grammys and writes tv shows. Yeah, people eat that shit up like crazy! I mean look at half of the programing on ABC family, the CW, the god damned Disney channel. Its all about gloomy as hell teens who cant get over superficial necesities and somehow find a way to tie in every day rejection with sexual tension and serious phisical abuse. If anything other than repetitive its hilarious. Not because of the content, but because of how close-mindedly it was writen. But it is what people want, and at some point I have to comply with that desire. So I invite you to come back with me to the beach, that magical pool of breeze and sun. Within the screaming children and hectic pace at which the waves wish to escape the seemingly docile sea to a sedentary life style underneath sands trampled over by the nomadic beach goers, there lives an energy only reserved for the most equilateral of piramids. Its the stuff from which philosophers are born and from which the lesser become men. Through the waves I saw her. That innocent nightingale playing around in the waves. She loves the beach, it was almost an addiction to her, like how she buried herself in her stories to get away from it all when I am not there. Part of me wanted to leap from the chair torwards the water. But it takes no Moriarty to convince this Holmes that I was sleeping under the sun. Yet during that moment of mental weakness I realized how even through moments of being withdrawn from her, she still rang through my mind. But not in the forest nymph style she usually does so, hoping in and out from my conciousness in an attempt to maintain herself soldified within my mind. But rather like the patron saint of chemists Saint Raphael, surely by my side to offer a helping hand during those moments when my conciense fleets of to the all too familiar oblivion of wonderland. She grabed me by the hand as if I were the only one in the universe. And for one moment, I believed it. Through some type of divine prank I returned to a not quite forgoten conversation had but months ago. And through that I faced the biggest fear that we shared only once. I grasped her hand and took a breath so deep, Joules Verne took pen and paper to the very memory of it. And through my last breath, the world dissapeared and only I remained. She was gone and my fear rang true. And as I woke up to say goodbye to the last of my friends, I looked around to the guests attending the reopening of a nightclub and say those solidified by the years of being together and decided that no amount of fiction would make them a figment of my imagination, yet I would not take another breath to test it out. Because if I had lost her once, I would not risk it again. And it was at that moment that I felt her hand once again on my shoulder, I was indeed happy without her. But only now do I realize I was never closer to her.