I am liminal

I stand at the edge of erosion, watching as its darkened waves slap fast against my ankles. From here I cannot see the ruins of the wall which hid this ocean. Under my feet, the sand crumbles, lunging towards the ocean it once forsook.

I remember back then, back where the recesses of my memories are scraping towards past made from ashes and glue into large archaic sculptures; reflections of the self sit on windowsills where people peer and question at their obscure form. I remember when, as children - innocent and cruel - we would pick on the scabs of the wall and try to push it over. Then, as years washed away with the tide, I came back; watching the stones crumble and fall, the black ocean dark and blank, I came to know of their true meaning.

But now the wall has fallen. Children no longer mark their height and age against the stones that once held it up. I no longer run and skip and question what lies behind: magical mysteries, waters of multicoloured and luminescent properties, sandcastles as high as mountains, shells-a-million... the tales of the past are too hard to remember. Etching a name against the sand is almost impossible.

The sand crumbles and reforms, the blackness does not fade. Perhaps soon the sting of its oil-slick waters will dissolve into its incomprehensible tide.