Today’s writing exercise at the caves:
The aged and worn stone stood quietly facing the far, blue ocean, remembering happier days. When it was higher and mightier, but then cracked and broke with heavy, sad thuds onto the sand.
“How proud I stood, how wary humans were as they climbed my spiky, craggy sides to get a view or smoke ganja to try to understand me and enjoy the views I offered.”
Tiktok, tiktok, groan, crack, thud. A big piece of my belly, proudly sticking out, falls onto a poor fisherman hacking at a dying turtle. His friends run out just in time, while he is too busy preparing the meal to hear the fatal crack. They lose their friend and miss the feast. They can’t drag the body out, and are too squeamish to hack off the parts uncrushed —how to have a funeral without a body, or at least parts of one?
My victim’s soul rushes at me in rage. “Why me?” He screams, “and why couldn’t you wait just ten seconds?!”
“Me, wait? What is time?” I reply to, or rather, through him, “You are nothing to me. I have seen countless of you come and go. I know not want of food, nor hope for good or fear of evil. I am formed already and will remain so, until water, much more patient than any of you, claims me. She comes either from above, with gentle determination, bringing crack and crash from my belly, or from the blue ocean, egged by the moon to smash at my caves and promontories, to snatch bits of me, over eons and eons. I thus give over to the ocean, me young and proud, the Ocean old and patient, the Queen of Time.