Sun is shining, I feel wet, riding in the rough foundation of sand.
The waves push me up along the glorious sun-soaked beach, away.
Glad I am to be exposed to something so bright and comforting, warm.
Ever since the evidence of the emptiness of the ignorant bliss and beauty
Present in my past dark ocean dwelling had made itself clear, the waves push. Away.
Yet, now on the light soaked beach, they push. Then they pull me back.
Threatening return to the deep, dark ocean, but something keeps me here. Safe.
Through the rocking and rolling, I somehow have hope and faint strength.
Up, then down. Up the beach almost reaching certainty then down, back into doubt.
Powerless against any forces, frustrated with constant change, I am. Powerless.
Will I ever stop the rocking and the shaking? Will it ever be just be light? When?
I am told, through stories of old and of years past, of mere objects such as I,
Being moulded and prepared for a life smooth and firm in the foundation.
I, a stone, hard and cold, set in a meticulous and tedious pattern of waves pushing.
And crashing. Without much strength of my own, I stay in sight of the light of the sun.
Within its grasps. I feel lost in these two elements, the dark waters and bright hope.
Fulfillment is somehow possible, despite the retreats into the waters I seem to be making,
And the rough ride that goes along with it, I am a smoothing stone of a soul.