Ôde à l'Océan

I rarely write on this blog. I neither find the inspiration to write good things, nor the courage to report my grim feelings. Yet the background is black; I shouldn't be this reluctant.

Some days, I'll wake up and feel like I can't confront what's usually natural to me. I'm not strong enough to stand and go out to the world, smile to people and do my job.

Other days I'll float in the wind with a pretty flower dress, and I'll think: "I know this street I'm walking on, I know this city. They're mine." But this hasn't happened in a while.

Today, I feel doomed.

It's one of these days where I endure agonizing emptiness; I am unable to connect to the people I love. I am an island.

I have a picture of a man flying a kite on Ocean Beach on a grayday. The beach is empty, except for him, and completely silent. Even the sound of the wind has deserted this memory. The sand is golden-brown, the horizon line is blurry, the sky is an opaque gray lid. Everything is motionless except for this man, far in the distance, with a red jacket, flying a kite.

This is how it feels.

This is what I mean when I say

"I have Ocean Beach inside."