Rambles at the beach

I sit on the beach, digging my feet into the sand, rough yet soft. Grains pleasantly cool caress my toes while particles, fiery and hard, scorch my heels. The sky is a pale dull shade of blue which turns into a duller gray vast expanse of water. Waves come crashing, magically turning creamy white and then in seconds, a murky brown as they mingle with the mud with no restraint whatsoever.

The landscape is littered. With people. Some drenched in water salty, some plastered with mud, wet. Some laughing, some solemn. People, people, everywhere. Amidst the human throng lie two dogs, each with one ear flat on the sand, right at the edge of the beach [And edge of an edge ?] as if listening to the rhythmic secrets of the sea.

The flame of the corn seller’s cart shimmers in the air, crackling in time to her hand rotating the wheel. She hands over the corn cob, once a pristine yellow, now willingly charred a sooty black to her customer, who eyes it hungrily. A crow sits nearby, painstakingly pecking at a sandy half eaten corn stub.

What is it about the beach that attracts me, I wonder. Maybe it is the only place left untouched by memories of what has been, left untarnished by yearning for what might have been, scrubbed clear by the waters of hope or despair for what might still be.

A child is blowing bubbles nearby. No longer young enough to be enthralled by the sight of the floating wobbly films of soap yet young enough to charmed by the action of creating them, she sends a steady stream of bubbles straight at me. One taps my discarded shoe while one smacks the corn seller’s face. One booms in the ear of the sleeping dog and one fizzles into the water. But one lone bubble floats, high and higher, far and further, till I can no longer see it. And somehow I know. That it hasn’t burst

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