text: The light fades in and I see the tide. It touches the shore again and again, in a reassuring manner. The hot, humid clouds waft in the sky and they are stained by the coral sun. It is both warm and cool; the sun bombards the earth around me with no mercy, and the ocean breeze comes in, rehabilitating me, like a nurse in a warzone. I look in the faint distance and I can see a vague outline, an island. I have been there, once. I glance to the right and I see a pier, a boardwalk of sorts. It extends hundreds of feet into the sea and at its end is a diner, a bright, happy and glowing place. It attracted patrons left and right. I remember people used to walk here, on this shore, on this pier, now it all sits, lingering, awaiting it’s next admirer; abandoned but maintained. Down the highway are power plants, extruding their white gases into the atmosphere, before them are patches of nature. Water flows into them and out to the deeps. Grass grows in this sand, like nowhere else. It grows tall and high and mighty, as if resilient against the power plants that tower above them. Birds and animals take sanctuary in these patches. The men from the power plants don’t bulldoze the patches because they are told so, because the birds and animals live there. I step out onto the sand and it burns for a second and then soothes my souls. I step and my feet slip but I keep stepping. I reach the wet sand and my feet sink. I look out at the coral sun and I am thankful. Down the road is a trail. I have walked that trail, from time to time. It tracks under the road, and back up again. It follows the river and into the sea. On the other side of the river is another patch of nature, the largest one. Here, large birds, like herons, thrive, yet they too are towered over. Not by power plants but by homes. The birds see no problem and they continue. I move further, into the water. The water soothes my sunburned legs. I feel my feet travel but I stay put. I see waves coming in, some no taller than my knees and some are up to my waist. One waist high wave sails in and I try to run but the sand seems not to give and the water holds me down. The wave crashes down on my legs as I scantily make it. I laugh, as this must’ve looked amusing. I gaze at the horizon, thinking of all that’s over it. All of Asia is over that horizon, and all of Europe is over that as well, and over that is right back here. In some sense, I was looking at myself, by leering over the horizon, by staring at the reflection on the water, by thinking too much. I wish I could be there again, in the water, by the sand, on the shore, by the highway. Instead, I am elsewhere. The nostalgic longing calls me, but I am put, hundreds of miles from any coast in the near center of a continent. Most days I never hear the call, and some days it rings and rings, so I answer, but as I do so, the line is cut, and again I am put. Recently it has been calling, and calling, over and over again, and even if I could answer, I am more stuck than before. I have all but one piece of that shore; a jar, filled with damp sand. Sometimes I grab it, and smell it, and it transports me to that place. I remember that any place is better than no place at all, and I remember that it is good to have the privilege to be stuck, to be put, because to have no place is as good as dead. I think of the coral sun and I am thankful.