where the writers are
Arambol

The beach is bathed in noonday heat serenaded by the constant yet consoling roar of the sea licking the shore, drowning out the chit chat of those that seek to partake of a comforting concert of decadence.

A quietness descends on his soul. He has been here before; a few decades ago when the full moon, when the subtle nuances of life was spiced by a freedom, a carefree purpose that embraced the longing of circumnavigating social stigmas, to be among those that stood on the periphery of existence, an existence that defied logic. From the chaotic and ever shifting enigmas he rose to become a traveler. Inscribing words on paper, removed from the heckling droves, the great unwashed in their matted tresses and shabby clothes arriving with an urgency, an urgency to be a part of dream that was once lived by the likes of him.

How does he tell them its gone, carried by a tide that unrelentingly and unforgivingly swept clean the supposed iniquities of a generation of seekers? Today they dress and ape those that had come before them in the hope that a fragment of the dream that once was be engraved in the matrix of their souls through osmosis…

The dream that once was is the nightmare of those that have survived this dream.

No one understands this; no one can comprehend what was, only what is and guess what is to come, which is just another dream.

Nothing exists in perpetuity because things change, not people. The same illusions, delusions and hopes reside in the psyche of those that attempt to emulate, to create newer vistas.

Change is the key to another door, another world that entices and entraps like a bitch in heat. Yet this change is never a change it is merely a rerun of the past disguised like a filigreed whore with the trappings of nocturnal eruptions.

He believed that he was a person who could make a change, a person who was an integral part of change. But as the cliché goes, the more things change…the more they remain the same.

Could it be that change is like Kierkegaard’s dream…a snake eating itself…worlds within worlds without the foreskin or reasoning of the constant.

In the end, if ever there is one, everything remains the same.

The song.

The price tag.

Nothing is free.

Not even Life.

He hastens away from the antlike crowds that begin to crawl onto the silver beach as the sun sets on another day of dreams, while Sea Fever rises with the encroaching twilight...

“I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over."

- John Masefield