…and sometimes, my inner monologue is like the sea. In its calm blue, mysteries hide much like in the human psyche. They are difficult to wrest away. Sometimes they emerge on their own from the relentless ebb and flow. The sea is different every day. It is masculine and feminine. There are days when she looks like silver playing with the sun. When whipped by the wind, he grows angry, green as a cat’s eyes. I lose myself in the freedom of its infinite horizon. In the soothing murmur of its waves, I find a whole spectrum of ideas and thoughts, as deep as the sea itself. It speaks to me. Or is it I who speak to myself, stirred by it?
This morning, while walking my dog along the seashore, I found a tuna stranded among the rocks. I will never know what happened to it. I had often watched the large fishing boats hauling giant tuna from their deep bellies, lifted out of the fish farm enclosures. They transfer them to trucks that take them to the auction. Perhaps this one managed to escape its prison and died of hunger because, once free, it did not know how to feed itself. It was used to a daily diet of sardines, for which it sometimes fought with the other captive fish and the seagulls. Maybe it envied the seagulls their freedom of flight and decided to escape. Perhaps it injured itself during its getaway, which ultimately cost it its life. Or perhaps its time had simply come.
When this town cast a spell on me and I decided to stay, I had the impression it would be forever. This morning, I saw myself in the tuna’s place. We have both reached the end of the journey. It has died. I feel resurrected. Living by the sea is a present. And dying will be one, too.
