I Lived Two Centuries Ago

I could see from where I was standing that the sun was just peeking over the water’s horizon. It looked as though a blaze of orange was emerging from the ocean; almost as if God was pulling it up by invisible strings. 
The smell of the salty, warm sea air, as I breathed in deeply, reminded me of when I was a little girl, when my family used to have picnics on the shores of Long Island. No memory could compare to those days of freedom; nothing could come close to the feeling of the security that I felt when I was with my mother and father. 

I poured myself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and let the screen door slam behind me as I proceeded to walk onto the beach. There wasn’t anyone around but me; the silence was welcomed, even in spite of the ocean’s roar. It was as if it was saying something to me; taunting me with each rush it made to the shoreline. I took a sip of my coffee and reveled in its hazelnut sweetness, and thanked God to be having the experience that I was having at that precise moment.

The sky was violet; I say violet to emphasize the clarity of its blueness. White formations floated above, making me think that something as beautiful as this could only be appreciated when you appreciate life—when you step away and let yourself be. My dreams are like the clouds—forever and ethereal, and they remind me that I am more than this space that I occupy.


Closing my eyes, and letting myself be, allows me to align with Him; my thoughts are of pureness and deep revelation; a contentment which goes deeper than any gratification could offer. It’s a freedom from this world. It’s a flight of my senses that goes beyond fleshly recognition.

I began to walk; my feet sinking deeply with each step I took. Seashells stared up at me, begging for my attention. The tiny, white ones were the ones that I picked up because the sun had made them glisten, like tiny diamonds. Nowhere in my world is there a place as perfect as this. A lifetime ago made itself known, just as it always does. The memory never leaves me when I set my imagination and soul free from these prison walls called now. 

A black and yellow butterfly graciously floats past me, and then lands on the sand a few feet ahead. And as I get closer to it, it lifts off in slow motion and gently brushes against my arm. Seagulls fly above; their cries bring me back to that time, and again, I can’t remember when that was. I only know that I was there and that I would never forget it.

My soul will never be complete. It hungers for yesterday and begs for tomorrow. It searches for newness, yet seeks the comfort of familiarity. Gin Lane is where I once lived over two centuries ago.

 

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