The Ocean pulls it’s body back and forth like my lungs that breathe in life.
And my heart that drums it’s final beats.
I’m sitting on a bulk of sand from the high tide line.
Nothing but my thoughts going for a swim towards the endless fog filled horizon.
If 2000 miles seemed this close then surely this puzzle would not be difficult.

What is missing?
A friend?
Something more?
The pieces around me, around this city, don’t fit this puzzle.
“Our love is a puzzle that can’t be solved.”
This whole beach is empty, just like the other half of the moon.

Even the moon is missing a piece to be whole.
Humanity has always misunderstood the nature of Love.
At least based on my understanding from the little experience I’ve had.
And the tragedies I’ve seen happen to family and friends.
I found meaning behind a couple of waves.

This is not coming from a broken heart, or a fixed heart.
This is coming from a broken soul, an honest one.

Love takes a lot of letting go.
Faith.
More than our pampered media lifestyle tells us.
If the ocean gives too much, there will be a flood.
If the ocean gives too little, there will be a drought.
Of course, no one thinks of the negatives, even though they are the aspects that are guaranteed in any form of relationship.
You have to work for that kiss, that hug, that matrimony.

Too much love will lead to a pleasure for solitude, a wanting for separation, and death through asphyxiation.
Too little love will lead to thirst, loneliness, and collapse.

In the middle where the love you take is equal to the love you make is where beauty and pain are embraced.

Yet this epiphany leaves me thinking.
The ocean, the moon, the bulk of sand on which I sit. This pen, this notebook.
This missing piece to the never ending puzzle.
The sunset, the sunrise.
The smell of coffee on a Sunday morning.
The sound of my father’s boot steps as he leaves for work.
The melancholic melodies of the human condition.
The desperation that comes with the promise of a better place, a better now.
The smiles, the laughs, the present, the past.

The little things always leave me longing for more.
The search for an endless satisfaction that I haven’t found.
A missing piece 2000 miles away, beyond the view of any horizon.
Scattered between water, rock, and snow.
Maybe this is what it means to be poor in spirit, and blessed because of it.
'In the economy of mercy I am a poor and begging man.'

All these ‘bruised and broken masterpieces’ are just ‘housed canvases for souls’.
Living,
Some unknowingly, under the ‘currency of grace.’

The moment when we surrender, acknowledging that our human desires were not meant to satisfy us, but to remind us of something more.
Something more beyond what we can see, touch, and understand.
Is when we lose ourselves.
Lose yourself, and you will find your true self.