As I stand here shivering in the emptiness of a lonely reflection only the seagulls whining for vending machine scraps and the palm trees rustling in the brisk ocean breeze are pleasingly audible to my ears, while the congested traffic of I-5 won't shut its big mouth.
Atop this hill overlooking the Pacific I feel as though I've died at Normandy, taking a bullet in all its glory. The exhaust fumes emanating from this rest stop are thick and pungent, a lot like gunpowder if I knew any better.
The picturesque landscape of this barbed-wire beach looks so displaced off this interstate. It belongs in a different century, its delicacy rewarded to a more honest country. This tide, understated and captivating, should be rolling in an era when patriotism was always unwavering and it didn't take catastrophes of cataclysmic proportions to reestablish it.
There used to be a time when television and cell phones didn't rule our daily lives. Somewhere in between our brutal colonization and future self-destruction genuinely gifted individuals were looked to for inspiration and we were thankful for their contributions. Norman Rockwell showed his appreciation for the day at hand with a paintbrush and a passion. Consequently he's long been forgotten about, replaced in the 21st century by egotistical foul mouths proclaiming to be artists.
Before capitalism and corporate sponsorships were synonymous with holidays and memorials legendary writers taught us life lessons about the travesties of overindulgence daring us to become critical thinkers. Rudyard Kipling penned a penniless man into a tyrannical kingship then brutally stripped it away through mutiny and murder. "How can daughters of men marry gods and devils," he pondered. Questions once considered eloquent aren't even thought-provoking nowadays.
With the technological advances of mankind no one can recollect a good short story or recite a verse from Shakespeare anymore but everyone knows the names of the woeful TV stars that infiltrate our daily lives. It's a sign of the times and I'm stuck trying to make sense of it.
Just when I thought the sun had taken the rest of the day off a ray of light shined upon the November-gray Pacific. It was like a hand reaching out to me from the other side of the sky. I can't describe the exact feeling I had at that moment but I'll never forget the power of the message that was sent down to me.
There were no postcard scripted waves crashing into the embankments or fishing boats visible in the distance on this gloomiest of days, just miles upon miles of cool space and the ocean's evolving inhabitants. There are mysterious entities on the other side and in between but I'll never see or speak to them or know why I'm intrigued.
As a legion of cumulonimbus clouds dictate my mood I've become a hostage. Bound and gagged by nature's wickedness, tortured by my permanent sicknesses and reality's unchained malevolence. A corpse I'll surely turn into if I sit freezing any longer. This numbing chill could prove to be the death of me. Time on Earth is a continual curiosity, hooray for the shame of my being. Never mind the sacrilegious declarations and glutinous acts of greed.
Theologians claim that He died for our sins, that there's forgiveness for the filthy. I won't come clean though I wash up vigorously.
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