I walk to the edge of the land to feel the sand and view the sea. Strangers see my ocean with the eyes I once used. Now I can see beyond those novice eye. I now see my ocean clearly in my mind. Describing my ocean, the sand shifting, my decorative sea shells, and the truthful waters. I can see my ocean. Will you view it with me?

The sand that can not be claimed shifts with every crashing wave that comes to shore. That sand coats my body as I build a castle that will disappear before I wake the next morning. The sand is not solid it is not still. All sand is moving. Sometimes I imagine the sand breathing though I know it is not so. I stand and look at the full beach and see the rolling off into the distance. The sands that I can not see farther off into oblivion catch my imagination. What could be out there? I glance at the sand below my feet and my mind wanders. What could be under this sand? I have walked on it many times, but never have I seen what is buried underfoot. Down under the sand there could be kindness for the water, worlds unknown, or little treasures.

What are those little treasures? Hidden shells under my step create a pattern beneath the sand. Those are some that are under the sand that I have seen. Many stay to land buried and not found. What a waste it is to never see the twist and the curve of small treasures. The silk texture under the tips of my fingers soothes the soul into a waving rhythm. Have I seen the small story tellers, many take for granted. Though, some tell at the farthest in reaches of land what the ocean whispers, like an important message. Shells give this message to all who will listen, but many will continue to unseen and land bound. Others will feel the caress of the sea and carry the message to different lands.

The water will carry this message gently through the currants. The waters to you, a novice, are no more than a place merely to be. I can no more call myself an expert than call the waters beautiful. The sea is not beautiful, it is much more than that. There is no word in any language to describe the sea. The only word that comes remotely close, mysterious. What is below the surface? Even those who have been there could never truly tell of what they saw. I can not tell of what is below the waves, and that is why the water draws me in. My imagination can turn through the churning energy for a million years and still find a deeper truth to the honest water. Honesty what a simple word that is corrupt. The water has given honesty to us. We have harmed the waves. Who among corrupt men can say he is honest and true to nature. I know I can not, but unlike me many still only see with shallow, young eyes.

I walked this path before, but my footprints have washed away. I have poured out the truth I know of my ocean. Will this truth search for, and find the ears of someone who will listen? I am unsure of that, but I have told of all the great subjective truths I know of. To describe my ocean is more than to tell of the sands I have walked on, the patterned treasures I have held, and more than the waters I have barely experienced. To view my ocean is to see deeper into every word I have written. View my ocean with novice eyes and miss all of the great things left unseen, or see my ocean the way I do and see a world that was hidden.