On the beachfront

Michael stood on the beachfront, his feet buried up to his ankles in the sand, sunken down by the gentle push and pull of the crashing waves as they came to a stop a foot behind him. He stood and watched as the waves surged up and down, back and forth, as in the distance children and their families played in the water and ran from it as it threatened to plow into them. He could hear their laughter faintly in the distance, but he paid it no mind. He was not interested in the actions and conversations of people. He was interested in the voice of the ocean.

He listened to it as it came and went around his feet, as it rose and fell. He could hear it trying to speak to him, trying to speak of the lives that it held onto, and the ways that it was threatened. It cried out of the pain it felt as it became polluted, or when fish became over populated and threatened to upturn the ecosystem. It spoke of species the likes of which had never witnessed. Tiny species which wished for nothing more than to be left alone and to mind their own business, and giant species that were dissatisfied with their place in life and wanted more. So like the follies of man, wishing to be more than they were, to reach higher heights than any that they had ever witnessed in their lifetimes or the lifetimes of their parents, or their parents' parents. Generations of creatures, untouched by light, that wished simply to know what was beyond.

And the ocean itself, unsure of what to do for all of the beings that it gave home to. Wanting to help them, but fearing what might happen if it did. Knowing that without them, it would be empty and alone. Knowing what its purpose was, but not where it came from or how it had come to be in the first place. Wanting to know more, but not having anyone to talk to. No one who could hear it. No one who could speak to it. No one who could understand.

But Michael could hear it. He could not speak to it, to advise or help it, but he could listen. And even if the ocean never knew, he would stand in its waters for hours to listen, hoping that the ocean might notice and feel comfort in knowing that there was someone, somewhere, who could hear. Someone to whom the water could vent its frustrations and fears, and share its joys.

But the ocean was massive. He could hear its entirety, and he knew how far the waters spread, how much of the earth it touched. He knew that its knowledge of the shores it swept upon was limited, and muddied by the constant interruption and interference of the acts of man, with intentions well and poor, who did not know that the ocean could think or speak.

For how could they? They could not hear it, nor should they hear it. They had no right to such an ability. Michael was no better, but it had been gifted to him regardless. And if he was to have it, the least he could do was to use it. And pray that one day the ocean would notice him, standing with his toes in the sand, listening, and it would know that it had at least one friend.