Waves
An ocean around me.
An ocean inside.
Crashing, crumbling, cradling waves seeking solitude and finding none. A bridge of clay and forgotten sand beneath shallow waters. Sounds of all kinds - a splash, a splutter, a splat, a swoosh, a swish and the soothing, sombre sound of silence. An ocean of thoughts and waves of memory. The sizzling crashing of frothy tides on the shore and washed up seeps and shells and conches. A navy of yearnings and pirated dreams.
A shop, a bench, a lamppost.
Not a single soul on the beach; alive nor aloof. A cool summer breeze waltzing with baby hurricanes, twirling and swirling dew drops around nothing at all and everything at once. Eyes forming in the waters of a universe, whistling the tunes of chimes without winds - big ones and small, those far and near alike.
A feather stuck in a whirlpool.
Thrashing itself into oblivion, struggling for peace, hoping against hope. The divine tear will drop again and the ocean will rise for the feather, with the feather. Lost. Forever. And yet, to be found again. It swings and dances stream to stream in a game of hopscotch, a game of consciousness.
The world beyond blue fades away.
The horizon remains all but a myth. And like a myth it falls asleep, pushed into a past that’s yet to come. It falls and falls and falls, until it’s lost forever. To memory and to reverence.
The world is one,
The world is me,
The world is the ocean.
An ocean inside me.
An ocean around.
An ocean inside.
Crashing, crumbling, cradling waves seeking solitude and finding none. A bridge of clay and forgotten sand beneath shallow waters. Sounds of all kinds - a splash, a splutter, a splat, a swoosh, a swish and the soothing, sombre sound of silence. An ocean of thoughts and waves of memory. The sizzling crashing of frothy tides on the shore and washed up seeps and shells and conches. A navy of yearnings and pirated dreams.
A shop, a bench, a lamppost.
Not a single soul on the beach; alive nor aloof. A cool summer breeze waltzing with baby hurricanes, twirling and swirling dew drops around nothing at all and everything at once. Eyes forming in the waters of a universe, whistling the tunes of chimes without winds - big ones and small, those far and near alike.
A feather stuck in a whirlpool.
Thrashing itself into oblivion, struggling for peace, hoping against hope. The divine tear will drop again and the ocean will rise for the feather, with the feather. Lost. Forever. And yet, to be found again. It swings and dances stream to stream in a game of hopscotch, a game of consciousness.
The world beyond blue fades away.
The horizon remains all but a myth. And like a myth it falls asleep, pushed into a past that’s yet to come. It falls and falls and falls, until it’s lost forever. To memory and to reverence.
The world is one,
The world is me,
The world is the ocean.
An ocean inside me.
An ocean around.
Nandita is the author of the book The Night is Still Young. Her stories and poems have found a place in anthologies like A Picture is Worth 1000 Words and Shades of My Words. She is currently pursuing her bachelor of arts in English Literature. When not writing, she can be found baking cupcakes, or snuggled up with one of her favourite classic reads.