Workings of the heart

The sky is a blanket of gray, merging with the gray sea off on the horizon. It’s hard to tell the difference between sea and sky. Between voyager and sea. Between reality and the workings of the heart. -Kafka on the Shore

I remember during the summer after my senior year of high school, my crew of high school friends and I went on one last hoorah to the beach before diverging into college. We went to the beach for the day, had a burger picnic, and stayed into the darkness of the night with a bonfire. While sitting around the fire, the flickering flames warming the front half of our bodies, we just casually talked. Nothing too existential even though we were about to close a huge chapter of a lives and walk into a new one. Amidst that, one of my friends and I walked away from the group and towards the water, captivated by the roaring waves that were nearly invisible from the night sky. We walked up to where the water kissed the shoreline and stared out into the vast horizon. I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the ocean, the world. Standing next to one of my closest childhood friends who had seen me through my shy elementary years, awkward middle school years, and drama-filled, stress-filled, and still awkward high school years, I felt like a speck of sand trying to assert my space and purpose on this endearing planet.

Ominously, the darkness blurred the line at which the ocean would have met the sky, and it instilled in me a bizarre kind of fear at that time – one that made me uneasy not to be able to see something as simple as where one horizon ends and the other begins. While the sea air brushed across my face, nostalgia and overwhelmingness rumbled my heart and swept into my lungs, leaving me speechless and breathless. I guess blurred lines make me anxious.

When I let myself, the haziness of my future consumes me. It feels like there’s a path I am meant to walk, but will never find. Then I remind myself that while there is such things as fate, every wave is pushed by the last. Every moment is written continuing from the spontaneity and delibracy of the last. It’s hard to tell the difference between what is meant to be and what is meant to change, between voyager and sea, between reality and workings of the heart. Maybe there’s no difference.

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