Tides

You would think they would follow some pattern, but they do not. When you need something to depend on, they do not come. It is the art of expectation measured against reality, the way tides have a mind all of their own. There is always such quietness that works itself into a storm. It has nowhere else to go. The eternity before released in a moment.

Life, the rollercoaster, ever edging us closer to the precipice. What are we afraid of? That's easy, always the unknown. So little we know, yet such fear of broadening the existential palate (or even the palette). There are answers in words, there are treasures well hidden, but how can they be uncovered if fear conquers us before we have even started? It is not to find answers, but to ask questions that mean we are searching and we exist not wracked by fears, or at least not letting them rule over us.

When the next wave comes will you be ready for what it brings? You are sat waiting, perhaps you are ill-prepared, on the other hand, you might be plotting and scheming how best to take advantage when finally it comes, and if it's worth riding to some other destination. There is little like clockwork though, and even that fails after some time. Time lashes the whip on us, over and over, blessing us, cursing us, asking questions of how we live our days.