On the first day we invented the sea. And just like that, our world was deep and wet, with playful toes tapping down between crests and ripples. I say the first day, because I don’t know of anything before we invented the sea. If we walked on the beach before, it left no imprint, and if we tried to gather sand in our hands, it would slip dryly through our fingers. If there even was a beach, before. I don’t know that they’d call it a beach before we invented the sea.
On the first day we looked at the sea. It made you proud, I could tell. It looked so much like something that had been there forever that nobody would believe us if we told them it was our invention. They would not have understood, anyway. Why, they would ask, why would you think up something so vast, yet we can’t take even a small part out of it, can’t make a dent or a hole, or even walk across it. What is the purpose?
On the first day we invented the sea, a marvelous thing that the sand would stick to my fingers, and I could take your hand and some of it would stick to yours as well, and that our wet feet would leave footprints side by side along the beach.
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August, 2010
