6th June 2013

She woke me up at precisely 7:20 in the morning and told me to get ready for the beach. beach. beech trees. I have not seen one. I hesitated for four minutes and said okay. Rough, rough sleep, inter-spaced with emoticons that convey more false emotions than real ones.

I love you.

I swear I am getting crazy.

After a ten minute ride we arrive and ran avoiding crusty dog shit along the beach behind the stadium. I saw ducks huddling together at the golf course. The sun had already rose, and I saw a black man running from the opposite direction. He bolts, and I feel his speed. Behind him is his girlfriend, or wife or sister, and she was puffing. I turn around and headed back. We were not really jogging, but made motions of it. I could catch up with her with just fast walking. I slowed down as I saw a bulldog shuffling through the dirt with its feet waiting to shit. His owner took out his dirty gloves. I did not stay to see the rest. I have seen many different animals defecate, camels, cows, cat, dogs, elephants, birds, fish. It is a nasty affair.

We walked to the beach. She jumped around in the sand, and I look at her rather nonchalantly and then at the lighthouse. I thought of Woolf. Then I look at the waves, and thought of Woolf again. I was nearer to the water because it was faster to walk. I avoided my shoes to get wet. I look at the sky and the sun is obscured by the cloud. It was a bleak sort of morning, where you feel a little ambivalent to its sadness and hopeful for the few times the sun would glimpse a little. I snap a picture for Instagram with her back on me. My album is full of pictures of the sea. But I never once swam in these oceans.

I then thought of Sylvia Plath’s poem Suicide of Egg Rock. Immediately a wave swept through my feet. I panicked but then felt at ease. I am one with the sea, and let it wash over me and my shoes.

She looked at me and I her and she said let’s get some coffee.

I never swam in these oceans.