tide and time

sometimes I have these minor revalations that change everything. Or at least, they change how I look at things, which subsequently effects everything else in my world.

Like realising I don't like candy. Once the high is gone I feel sick, and it's just not worth it.

Or walking down the cherry blossom streets and realising my melancholy joy is the feeling of breaking up. Letting go. Because I know soon I will be leaving this town, everything that makes me smile feels like the last time.

Last weekend we had one. For the long easter weekend, we went to the sea. It's 7 minute train ride from the centre of town. Something we do quite a lot actually- but usually ad hoc and just for a little while. This was systematic excursion involving a picnic, a 7 mile shorline hike and discovering a mosterous and fascinating dead seal.

While the seal carcass - which was mostly flubber and skeleton - was freaking sweet (and gross), it's not really my point.

The molecular epihpany was that we are both shore people. I've always loved the water. As a kid I romanticised it as my dad's selkie genes. But being by the water is a sure fire way to feel alive. No matter how often, how dirty, even industrial wastelands prove enlightening.

So we decided. we are going to live on the water. On the coast. On a big wide piece of water that can engulf, ensnare, and even promise salvation.

Just saying it we both felt the scales fall from our eyes and the weight slip from our shoulders. It's such a funny thing to care about so vicerally. But there you go.

We'll take it small - maybe Brighton or Chicago or San Francisco for artsy urban bike-riding sea fronts. We're not forsaking our way of life yet. It'll be years before we work up to proper shack and shanty cronies who smell of fish guts.