And he sat there on a bamboo veranda, watching the warm ocean roll in
and out, below the bowing palm trees that sighed gently in warm wind.
And he reflected quietly on his life and his place in the various
machinations of the world that he moved within, and in which and of
which he played a part.
And to what degree were his actions
consequential? As each wave rolled up the ruffled sand, he saw how each
decision he'd taken had made change. Not only in his own life but in the
lives of others. And his actions echoed down through the world. He had a
place.
As the cicadas sang, and the sea hushed its complicated
language over the shifting sands, he saw how his life played a part.
Just a little part. And as he sighed his last, and his vision blurred,
and the sea melded with the sky, he knew that his life wasn't without
consequence. As his children laughed and played in the growing distance.
And even as the cicadas continued relentless, he understood that the
difference between snow and warm sea is that one is set and decided and
crystallised, whilst the other is warm and fluid and undecided. And he
knew that being alive was warm water, and that it took death to
crystallise one's view such that it held a perspective. Prior to
that, only warm and tangled currents could define any view. Confusion.
Something yet to form. Yet to crystallise. And only some frozen form that
came from the cessation of fluid indecision could ever define him. So he
came to know that his death coalesced his life into something
recognisable.
d
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