Burning Waves.

I.

Standing along the shoreline, the sand a crisp white and the calm cerulean blue ocean, I wait for the storm to manifest—a tsunami of waves. The restlessness. The wanting. The nothingness. There was no timing for it. It was just something that would be, eventually. Then, a new wave of depression hit.

II.

The lines and threads of nerve endings, veins, skeletal structures that make the system go—are short-circuiting. I am here and yet I am not.

III.

If you could speak to me, I would not hear you. This receiver has been hung up. Days and days past due.

And, here we are again. We do not speak. Sit in silence. Worlds apart. Are we in the same room? I forget, am I a ghost or are you?

IV.

They are all writing words these days. Words with meanings. Words with purpose.

I have no words for them that matter. My words are my words, for me alone. Again, with no purpose—

Possibly, a purpose? A reminder, a reminder that I exist. I am. And, again yet not.

Ramblings of the nerve endings, madness ablaze. I may be a ghost after all.

V.

There is the ocean. Again. The vast cerulean blue. The sky above manifests itself as a reflection. Now, who is next to me? Not you.

A burning feathered red bird—dancing. Dancing through the flames, as if it were not afire. As if, it was fine. Just dancing. Telling me something. What is it trying to tell me through its dance? The bird could rush into the ocean and snuff out the inferno. It chooses to dance the fire dance.

VI.

I’m going to die. It's final. But, when is speculation.

VII.

You couldn’t stop me even if you tried.

VIII.

Words. My words.