The ocean is the origin of wisdom. All things are dictated, at their essence, by rhythm, and water is the essence of all things. This we know.
The rhythm of life has come to call man, after all this time, to rest his world-weary legs on her shore. It is here that salvation lies. Too long has he knelt in supplication to the false idol of control, attempting endlessly to drive his own rhythm down into the earth, to break and build, to carve the future from blood and stone. Only now, on the very verge of death, has he made it here, surrendering finally to the eternal call.
To step into the sea is a great feat for he who has had land as his lover for time out of mind. Yet when he does, it is as naked as the day he was born, swimming with the current, unafraid, all the resistance of his former life relinquished to the great watery heart of the earth. It is here that he allows finally the understanding of himself as a creature of the sea. All the terrible years spent in servitude to the land was a dream, a hopelessly cumbersome dream of dust and desire, and now that he has given himself over to the tide, nothing could seem more natural. Alive, sanctified, he swims out into the deepest waters.
. . .
There is a flame, azure blue, flickering within the centre of all things. Liquid fire that emanates time, that creates mind. It is there, shimmering, iridescent, the essence of every planet-bound soul. It has placed inside us all an eternal call, to return home to its heart, and in so doing, find our own in turn. Consciousness bestows it. The present knows it. Every human carries it within — every tyrant, every saviour, every slave, every maker.
Still it goes unheard. We have failed to gather around it. We have few among us who know the heat of its water. The workings of man have kept it hidden, deluding us, the land he works ill-using us, obscuring the call with the false desires built into the walls he has laboured so long to bring us. It is hubris. It is affliction. We are, all of us, lost within a labyrinth of false construct, searching endlessly for something without, while inside it remains, forever, unfelt.
So what, then, are the workings of man? Shadows. Machinations. Perfunctory statements. Walk out amongst them and see for yourself. They are hollow in their construct, devoid of spirit, devoid of strength. Products of an untethered mind. The joys they provide are seductive, chimerical in their illusion, fleeting in their presence. They will not stand up to deep time.
We are water-born. And so we will forever remain. The Flame is inextinguishable. The call inexhaustible. The walls around us will weep the slow smell of salt sown by the sea until each of us come to respond, shedding the dress of longing and complacency, emerging shorn in the warm sunlight and setting a path to the east. In time, feet will greet sand, coming to rest where the water meets land, and we will again stand naked before her, peering out to the vanishing point, the cool air rolling over us.