Shores are mere illusion, a surviving ventilator for terrestrials and death beds for water inhabitants. What about the inanimate objects? Leaving behind their residues in hopes of binding with something else, that may give a meaning to their flawed existence, perhaps.
I saw a boy, no this isn't about him but I can't help from painting his illusion in my words like a routine. Just like the dewy-eyed shores, he too was sentimental over his own residuals. Such fate I deserved, his shadow was sketchy yet I felt complete from within.
The granular sands aiding towards the harboring shell, hiding them from pilferers, who interested themselves in chintzy belongings and placing them on shelf as medals. The boy, he somehow rules out upright ways to find a place in my journal or is it myself still lamenting over his absence?
He was a shadow, an oblique picture, tilted away from me, like an angry child. His silhouette I drew on white sheets of paper, somewhere doodling my own shadow along with, in rainbow colours. That's how I remember him, just his existence colliding with my inhibitions.
Shores are maliciously deceiving, they follow an irrevocable truce with recurring waves to give back what was left ashore. Maybe he was fond of ripples, about how independent their existence becomes while maneuvering through vastness of water.
I never bypassed that shore again, my intuition always signalled a flood, that might drown me in depths I fear. I'll stop painting him words someday, and feel satiated by the ripples that now became him.