Flash Prose: Dream Sequence
Remember the oceans turning in tides to the coasts, much like the gyrating grating of a new heart, much like a lover in debt; an unforgettable detail lost among the minute folds of every crest and trough, seeking solace in the forgetfulness of the eye and the unreliability of sight. It is longing that one pours whole unto another’s palms — or try, at least — with each failure to reach more poisonous than the last. That in every glorious illusion a poem is written and a song is heard; it is a beautiful deception.
And salt eats away at all the memory from the sands, in microscopic proportions life erupts: a shell dissolves, limbs vanish, skin turns to gold. This is a symphony of alchemical reactions set to the rhythm of a breathing earth, an ancient harmony in tune with the low moaning of the sea. Even as deep and as rumbling are the faults that adhere to this rapid spinning, the creatures take notice: atmospheres work for and with the cynics — the icy gloom ahead warning them that the concerto is coming to an end, and soon a frozen wasteland of the once-waters would be all that’s left for miles around.
But wonders, that just before this singularity comes a burst of colours: a chromatic scale accompanying a nondescript, gray sequence — at times dissonant and unsettling, yet generally a pleasant arrangement. The oceans use their every ounce of strength and power to brew tides that signal the mellow tragedy of acceptance; a nuance that seems to embrace its fate, genuinely and lovingly so.
It is softest in the bending, one may observe. The air is sweetest just before one completely drowns.