Abused By Illusions

Days pass and I find myself running from the spirits of past, present, and future. I watch as the oblivious soak up the uncaring sunshine of the Gulf Coast. The sea of body language testifies to a myriad of broken dreams and resilient unfulfilled hopes. Their cares evaporating off their well oiled bodies flickers like some satanically tainted celluloid clip from an ancient Lawrence of Arabia film.

They come here to the edge of the ocean to hear the earth sing its sad soothing lullaby. The surf, for them the disenfranchised of both God and man, is natures non-pharmaceutical antidepressant. They are akin to a terrestrial reenactment of the whales that swim from the depths of the deep blue sea to beach themselves. Both, ceremonial acts of a noble but troubled species, touches me and in some twisted way makes me feel less critical of my own personal demons. The noise of the surf becomes an auditory baptism of all the negativity that has built up and corrupted both my mind and spirit.

Both man and beast come to this boundary between terra firma and the deep blue sea in hopes of banishing the melancholic demons tormenting them. I am surrounded by the jinn of these lost souls. Jinn, in some cases so fierce, that they can fling a man a mile or more. They soon pick me up and begin to bounce me from dune to dune in hopes of being rid of me. As I am tumbled like a discarded rag doll I hear bits and pieces of their lunatic liturgies.

A banal parade of garishly appareled adolescents march by, fueled by hormonal storms, casting their path down the sand like a drunken sailor on shore leave. They have not reached the level of desperation promulgated by their parents but seem to be furtively pursuing the family tradition. The surf whispers to me, in a nearly perceptible voice, secrets that it is never quite able to convey in spite of its seeming desperation.

I am saddened by memories bobbing on the waves of my consciousness. Memories of when I was an active participant instead of always the exiled observer in the corner. Depressed by my banishment from the corporal world and the current estate of desolation which I now find to be my domicile.

I wiggle my toes in the warm sand as i relish the siren song of the rushing surf which seems to wish to envelop me. I ponder if in fact I will ever be able to escape my self imposed exile here. Will my spirit rise from the ashes, like the phoenix of old, to once again soar magnificently upon the brilliant wings of my dreams? I call out to the now darkening horizon in a voice that my mind scantily recalls as the voice of my childhood. "Please send us, your abandoned children, that which can only be called redemption!"

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