I went surfing when my grandfather died

I went surfing when my grandfather died.

Whenever I feel a little low, I need water. You could say water is my nourishing sanctuary; my shower after 11 days in the wilderness – drenched in sweat and restlessness.

Looking. Feeling. Breathing the salty perfumes in through my nose. Deep. It feels like my mind is massaged to life and is ready to fly out through the top of my skull. Cartwheeling down the beach barking “Follow me! Follow me!” as sand scurries around every handprint.

It’s raining here. How playful.

Ah, the sea. I think the sea taught me; it made me aware that I like to be alone. Much like a soul-searching protagonist of a Murakami novel, rummaging for little scraps of meaning in the sand. Interpreting signs from the universe into my own warm narrative.

It’s funny how our mind can ebb and flow like the waves, never revealing their exact movements.

All I know is that my arms are outstretched for the next break.