I once knew a man. An old man, who sat on the stoop of his worn out beach house. Looking out at the sea day after day. He would always talk about the sea as a young, naked woman. A breathtaking young woman with a thousand waves in her eyes. He spoke in riddles, or so it seemed. Maybe he was trying to tell a story…that no one could understand. I have spoken to him before but couldn't understand him. He wrote a poem a long time ago. And every time I went to him he would hand me the dirty old paper without looking away from the never-ending ocean. I remember reading the words he had written on the crinkled up paper, I now clench within my fist….. You are like the ocean,your tides are deep and endless. Your secrets dark and hidden. Your beauty reflects of colour,as your tears crash down like waves. Oh,how endless is the sorrow,you hide within your storms. Oh,how blessed is the beauty,you hold within your stillness. Your peace is as eternal,as the memory of your departure…why would he write such a poem? I asked myself over and over again. And I could never understand it. I asked him about the poem before and all he said was, "She was like the ocean. beautiful and untouchable. however deep within her, she carried sadness and secrets." He was directly referring to a woman and at the same time to the ocean. Sometimes he would mutter that there was nothing he could do. That it was too late, and that his ocean will look after her and cleanse her from all the pain she held within. Obviously, he was talking about someone who died…I guess…but…. He also said that she lives within the ocean. I don't know……. He never really told me the story. He died three years ago, and yet, I'm still constantly fighting the urge to lose my mind. For some reason I needed to know the story. I have to. But he's gone now, and I have a feeling that the secret is writing within the words on the worn out page… 