there was once an old man, who used to tell his secrets to the sea. every night, he would arrive at moon rise, sit on the sands and tell the sea of all his sins. the love of his life and the lonely days which compelled him to live to honour her. he also told of the tales of the weary, the travellers and pilgrims who stopped by his home on the highway, asking for water in return for a story and a smile. he knew lots of stories, the old man. often it was not clear if the sea lulled him to sleep, or if he actually calmed the waves and put them to bed with his colourful stories.
he was not a vengeful man. he was old in age, but not regretful. he had not lived a full life as is often described of people in the gray age. he had lived a quiet one, and continued to do so, with only the sea for company.
the sea, of course, is older than us all. and in return for the old man's sinful stories, it raised its ugly head one day, when there was no moon in the sky, slipped beneath his feet, swallowed the sands under him, and took him along. the old man tried to clutch at the waves at first, in a bid to get back to the shore. he could not understand the sea's anger. suddenly he knew. the sea was angry because never once had he asked the sea of its sins. he had never given it a chance to drown its sorrows. he had never asked the seas how many lives it had taken, and how many lives were given to it.
and he let himself be swallowed by the endless waves, until all he could see was darkness and cold. and it was a befitting end to the story, he thought. he had told endless stories to the sea, and the sea had sent him countless waves in return. and yet, they had never really understood each other. they loved each other, but what is love is not a sweeping, drowning, sorrowful joy that only the dark cold can reveal?
he was not a vengeful man. he was old in age, but not regretful. he had not lived a full life as is often described of people in the gray age. he had lived a quiet one, and continued to do so, with only the sea for company.
the sea, of course, is older than us all. and in return for the old man's sinful stories, it raised its ugly head one day, when there was no moon in the sky, slipped beneath his feet, swallowed the sands under him, and took him along. the old man tried to clutch at the waves at first, in a bid to get back to the shore. he could not understand the sea's anger. suddenly he knew. the sea was angry because never once had he asked the sea of its sins. he had never given it a chance to drown its sorrows. he had never asked the seas how many lives it had taken, and how many lives were given to it.
and he let himself be swallowed by the endless waves, until all he could see was darkness and cold. and it was a befitting end to the story, he thought. he had told endless stories to the sea, and the sea had sent him countless waves in return. and yet, they had never really understood each other. they loved each other, but what is love is not a sweeping, drowning, sorrowful joy that only the dark cold can reveal?