I hate how I feel hollow, despite clutching my chest, trying to stop that feeling. it consumes me, takes over my brain like a wave takes over the sandy shores of the beach, pulling everything away from it, and pushing back only what it wants to.
Shells, beautiful shells.
That’s what it could be.
But no, it pushes back plastic.
Cold, hard, dull plastic.
Maybe that’s what’s meant to be; you can’t change how the tide works, can you?
Maybe plastic is all that’s meant to be.
It doesn’t decompose, it just stays there, lying on the sand, until someone takes it away.
Until someone actually takes the effort to get it out of the sand, and throw it in a bin, just where trash belongs.
You can’t dictate how you feel; you can’t dictate the weather either.
You don’t get to decide when it’s going to rain, or when it’s going to be sunny.
The violent rain comes in and destroys things, everything you’ve worked so hard to build, all the fragile things you possess, that could so easily perish if even a single drop of water touched it. You can shield it all you want, but who will shield you?
You may like the sun; I mean, why wouldn’t you? It's warm and it’s bright.
but too much sun causes sunburns, maybe even cancer.
Isn’t just living in the rain forever better?
At least you don’t experience any warmth before it is so ruthlessly taken away from you.
At least when you live in the rain forever, you won’t ever feel that warmth, when the warmth itself becomes the reason for your pain?
I hate the chills that run down my spine, it just reminds me of all the cold I tried to escape, putting on multiple layers.
They blocked out the cold, they kept me warm on the inside.
I didn’t have to turn to a fire.
But when I took the layers off, I was taken aback by the harshness that came my way.
Icicles piercing my skin, testing my permeability.
Would I let them in?
I stared at the scars they left; thinking that no icicle would ever come near me again.
But what if I wanted it to?
Just to feel the thrill of it brushing past my skin, trying to get in.
Maybe the fact that it was trying so hard overwhelmed me.
However, the waves always push back plastic, and although the icicle tries so hard to pierce it’s way through, the plastic forbids it.
Imagine the waves, prohibiting the sand from ever experiencing a shell again.
I look at the shells, so beautiful.
They say that the grass is greener on the other side;
Well, why does everyone on the other side look at mine and see nothing but weeds?
It’s all the ocean’s fault. Sending plastic my way when I could have so much more. When I know I deserve more. I look for shells with every passing tide, but all I come across is plastic. No matter how hard I look, there are no shells.
There are never any shells.
So I live in the rain, with the ocean giving me heaps of plastic, when all others get shells. I live with icicles, which fail to melt because there is no warmth within.
There is just a bitter cold.
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