Where The Line Ends

The moon hung grimly in the sky as if you could tell it was ready to fall. The thread it clung to, invisible and withering away by the second. The tides of the ocean seemed to follow suit in their mourning, swaying meagerly, full of pity. I sat by myself on the cold sand, digging my nails into the barren land. I watched as the grass swayed with the weak breeze, the blades turning deeper by the minute. It was a soulless world, an unapologetically blank space. A bitter, angry, dejected spot hidden deep inside a bleak galaxy.

I couldn’t remember how it got like this. So much so that at times I wondered if life was ever different. Perhaps the childhood of color that I imagined was just that – an imagined one. I leaned back on the sand and watched the moon swing on its thread. It was oddly relaxing, in a way. I knew that the permanence I had felt life once had was now gone. In a moment, this could all be over. It was fleeting, and for some strange reason, unbeknownst to me, I wasn’t afraid.

I suppose there was a time in my life when I was busy. Buzzing around, talking to strangers, buying flowers at supermarkets, wearing cohesive outfits. There must have been a time in life when I couldn’t wait to hop out of bed in the morning. The memory is so distant, it always feels fake. Now, there is no job for me to clock in at, no movie to watch, no love to ponder, no stranger to consider. Instead, here I am, alone on an ice-cold beach, in the peak of night, thinking about how little I’d mind it if it all should vanish.

A faint scratching wakes me up from my sleep, which doesn’t surprise me since I slept so lightly that it shouldn’t qualify as rest. The scratching continues, faint yet prominent enough to make my head start aching. I lazily come to my senses, wiping my eyes a degree too hard, and try to stand. As I do so, my eyes quickly fixate on a deep line in the sand. It’s peculiar, the way it was carved. The edges aren’t as round as you’d expect if dragging a stick through the shore. Instead, the line is thin, about a foot deep, with scratchy, uneven, confusing edges. I’m not a scientist, but it doesn’t feel natural or in any way correct.

My initial instinct is to follow it, though the chances of it ending somewhere I want to go are egregiously slim. I can’t help but satisfy the morbid curiosity within me, though. I’ve never been one to ignore things that pique my interest to such a high degree, so why start now? The line starts near the spot I slept in, way too close for my comfort. I follow it for about a mile, through spirals in the sand, circling trees and vacant lifeguard stands. At times, it seems to weaken, while in others, it becomes a bit angrier.

Another two miles followed, watching the line closely and eagerly. The thought occurs that this might be a useless endeavor, but just as I’m beginning to fully consider this thought, I see it. The end. The branchless trees, the cold, dim, morning sun, the glassy sand, all come to an end. Without any warning, the sky turns from a decomposing gray to a mystifying blue. The kind of color you could taste just by looking at it.

I can feel the sun’s warmth again, the grass perks back up, green and smiling. As if it couldn’t get better, I finally hear the sounds of the ocean, rushing to kiss the shore. It’s incredible, it’s better than anything I have ever imagined. Life, suddenly, became purposeful. I have to live in order to continue experiencing this. The birds sing their songs in a way I wish I could bottle. Deer drink from the water carelessly, away from harm. Flowers even begin to bloom where shadows once were. Turning back, I see the path I was on peering behind me. Mundane and bleak, it glares at me, void of thought. There’s no use going back, I’m so happy here.