Burial at Sea.

The ocean doesn't care that I'm sad, sitting as I am on wet sand, being as it is an abyss of tears. The ocean doesn't care that I'm hungry, being as it is the swallowing of the earth, drawing sand from the shore like time whittling toothpicks from our bones. The ocean doesn't care that I threw my worn-out shoes as far as I could towards the horizon, and tomorrow it will probably gently deposit them on the beach among shells and seaweed and some poor fool will throw them away without a second thought to the miles they've carried me, towards what great views and from what crushing loves. If I knew they would be washed to India, if I knew, I would've thrown them in still lashed to my feet, but then some poor fool would be left with a soggy corpse among shells and seaweed, and I would not be writing this now but would be on my way to India still following a broken pair of Vans towards new horizons and from great loves, and I should like to think those shoes won't wash immediately ashore but have died in my stead, and that a grain of my soul has sank with them and one day an oyster will burp a pearl that will rise like a moon and act as a candle so I shall finally be able to light my way home.