I glanced over the craggy hot rocks of Sicily’s southernmost shore. The brilliance of the sun radiated off the bright rocks, and I was tempted to shield my eyes. The white foam of the Mediterranean engulfed the rocks and the spray sprinkled my bare skin. As the water receded, there opened a momentary void, a silence. The air hung still and suspended for a couple moments longer before it was shattered by another crash. The foamy water teased me again, the little droplets tempting me to take the plunge. I did not. I simply sat on my hot rock as the unerring song of the sea endured in the otherwise languid afternoon.
As I sat I began to internalize the rhythm of the water and the song of intense ferocity became comforting to me. It embraced me, like the arms of a mother holding her baby at birth. I wanted to bury myself in the sound of the waves. I wanted to fall into the rhythm and release…
The way the water consumed the rocks I wished it to consume me. The way it swirled around their bases and came back again, with the rocks holding fast…
The push and pull. The struggle of the tides of life. Always on the brink of chaos, but always in control. I wanted to release myself to this struggle, this broken song, and let it consume me. Never have a felt happier.