This won’t be formal or well-worded or even coherent, really, I tell myself as I retype this sentence for the fourth time. I’m not in a place to rearrange words and sentences endlessly until they fit just right, I just need to write. But I feel like every word I put down is wrong and it sounds misshapen and it cuts my mouth like razor blades or glass broken on the curb. I’m not sure how to put anything together anymore, Humpty Dumpty would be proud. I wish I could have spent my time by the bay alone, to replace those memories with something just for myself. To me it seems as if this massive body of ever shifting water has been shrunk down to my petty memories and I don’t like that. It’s not just the bay. It’s coffee shops and red lights and street corners, and it feels like the only way to move forward is in the ocean. It’s times like this that I yearn to be that vast, I want people to see me but not know me because how can you know the sea? It has so many shades and colors and depths, you’re never really sure what’s waiting for you just off the shore. But that’s a little selfish, isn’t it, to want a square inch of land for a moment with yourself. There are countless memories crafted and well-worn on the same street corners, loved by strangers and friends, that do not belong to me. And these memories I want to abandon so readily do not belong solely to me either. And the sea probably isn’t the best way forward, it’s always pushing and pulling me but never moving me. It was nice to write near it, though. The wind was so different to what I’m used to, salty and wild and crisp. Well, wild and crisp in a different way. The winds in the mountains of New Mexico are homebodies roaring through the canyons and pinching your cheeks, inviting you away. They are cold and alarming but somehow they always left me rooted more firmly in the earth. The winds here pull at my clothes and unwind my hair, trying to undress me in broad daylight. They leave me unsteady. They’re more inquisitive and daring, and it’s so beautiful to see them mirrored in the waves. I was there at night, a few times actually, and the abrupt shifting of the waters when the wind moved over them captivated me. There were dark arcs, swept up in the gusts of wind, which would dance over the tops of the shifting gray waves. It was fast, almost violent cutting into the previously undisturbed waters. I think that’s my favorite part of the bay. You would think it would all be the same color but it is shades upon shades of the richest palette imaginable dabbled across the foam-capped landscape. And when I look away the world around me explodes. Who would have thought that the fog could be so colorful? All those shades of gray cradling the world and dampening the vibrations of the train tracks as it barrels into the next town. I think I moved here to explore the mountains, which undoubtedly I will do, but I’ve found that I need to sink into the ocean more too. It calls to me, even when I’m walking along the shore. I’ve often found myself, on a run or walking with a friend, being overcome with the passionate need to dive in headfirst to the waters. Sometimes I have. I really wanted to capture my awe of the ocean and the rhythm of the waves in what I wrote for today, but I’m not sure I did. I don’t really think you can.
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