Curl

Whipped winds, there's a strange surge in the air and the metaphor is surfing a great wave: some days  we are pulled into the undertow, some days we manage to skate by at the top of a crest and hope only to hold on for dear life. Every wave ends, every high is only an exercise in holding off the inevitable fall. You realize not everyone lives their life in this image, but you do not believe it. You lie on your board, feel the current move beneath you, feel the current move within you, one day I stood in the ocean and believed I would make it back to shore; I forget sometimes in winter that there is life underneath this ice. Remember sometimes in spring I am not content to be the wave. 

I want to be the whole fucking ocean.