There it was. Just sitting there. Vast. Immeasurable. And impossibly blue. The Pacific Ocean, so inevitable that it took me 12 years to get here. But inevitability isn’t about immediacy. It’s just that unshakable destiny you destroy yourself to avoid but it’s still hanging on, like an extra limb you can’t sever know matter how many times you take the proverbial knife to it.
I always knew something bad was bound to happen — I never even considered the possibility of happiness. Now that I’m here, finally, staring out into the watery void… I wonder if I ever knew anything about anything.
It’s amazing, amusing even, how something so large — placed at the end of the continent so that all you have to do is follow the setting sun to find — can be so hard to find.
But, alas, here I am, standing on the cliffs of what used to be Santa Monica. A pier slowly crumbles to time before me, below me the beach where a massive city rubbed against the shore like a lech at a bus stop. And this is my final destination. I have no way, nor desire, to keep going.
After 12 years of shaping reality for people around me — everybody, eventually — I had no more lines… no more descriptions. You can’t pay to tell you what I see. My eyes are for me only, now.
The ocean is crashing and frothing like a turbulent stew and dotted with whitecaps; and sailboats that crashed against the pillars of a dilapidated pier create a little island of trash and wreckage. A broken down roller coaster looks like an emaciated metal dragon and I had nobody to tell this to, nobody paying me for this knowledge, the image only my pupils could see… and this made me tingle like a cold breeze covered my body, like a conman telling the truth, like somebody just gave me a mirror and the person I saw… was somebody new, better, happy.
This is what it means, finally, I suppose, to really, really see.