I like to write about the ocean because it’s bigger than we could ever comprehend and it’s alive.

It’s more alive than we could ever be.

I sit here and I have these thoughts and somehow my mind always drifts to rolling waves under expanse of sky and just the noises. There’s something so perfectly imperfect about the crash of a singular wave piled on top of the crash of a million more singular waves.

And I guess this means something because we are all waves and we are all rolling and we are all crashing.

Crash crash, crash.

I wish I could forget you.

I wish I could forget you.

Crash.

Ocean would never pretend to be anything it wasn’t. And ocean couldn’t break you because ocean isn’t a he or a she or an it, ocean is an idea bigger than any idea we could ever create. Ocean is every idea you’ve ever had thrown together into a living, breathing Idea with arms and legs on every continent.

The ocean is that perfect brainstorm that every author hopes someday to have. Every writer hopes one day they’ll come up with that perfect Idea who’s shores would be walked on by every man who had appendages to walk with.

Every painter looks for the perfect Idea.

Every activist.

Every scientist.

Everyone you’ve ever met is looking for the ocean, and they don’t have to go very far to find it.