I reconnoitre a slightly different beach route for an upcoming Hiku Hike. The water is very loud and the pied kingfishers are unusually close and energetic, flitting almost like bats, uttering their high-pitched calls.
Settling on some rocks, I grow absorbed in the bubbles of foam, which a few rather capricious swells are herding into the holds of the reef.
They are marrow cells and nuclei of foam, shuddering, spinning, exploding, reconsolidating, gaping, rotating.
I feel myself becoming involved in their trembling existence. Can there be anything more insecure than foam?
The wind is stout and sharp as a small dagger, the sky's swathed in indecisive whites, partially obscuring a weak blueness, a blueness busy resting from having to be a hue.
Thus, the sea is largely colourless, a de-individuated expanse, retreating from language, from consciousness.
That will be all for today. The softest parts of you are equally speechless.
30th June 2024
When I zoomed into the snaps I'd taken, I saw that each bit of foam marrow had seen me too, replicated, with its compound eyes.
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