Sweet mother it makes the sound again and the waves wash piss and shit out of my pants. The waves that come harder with each splashing footfall. The rise sucks them out again. Each step makes the surf even angrier.
I am going to die.
I am certain, yet compelled to wait here on the beach with the others. Townies and tourists all here beckoned by the terrible screech projected from its horrible mouth. As it nears, though malignant and against every natural order I am aware, I am struck by a perfection. The Universe want of pure intention.
That is he.
What should be.
And me? An accident to be terminated. The afterbirth of perfection. Something meant to be swept away and apologized for.
I drop to my knees, struck by a sudden gale as it flutters giant wings.
As if seeking to thank me for my offering, a wave sweeps me into the ocean. I taste cold saline. I flounder in the shadow of death. I flounder looking to survive. Yet chaos dictates one thing, I try and breathe the water and do so in a fit desiring life.
But that is the animal dying.
I am more than that now, I am his victim, soon to taste God’s oblivion.
and in my final moment, I bask