Tides

       A darkened evening's tide turns in. Currents ever changing violently in cross tow patterns seem to pull the night from the sky and steal the sand from a crystal shore. Large rocks crawl off the beach and lay at least fifteen yards into the wild black sea. Bare chested, a boy stands at the rocks looking into the vast dim infinity awaiting him. The pathway is highlighted by the moon. Yellow fireflies flicker above the ocean's surface.
       Battering waves crash at the boy's feet soaking his jeans; wind messing his hair. His lean body is displayed by moonlight, outlining his arched back, arms raised gripping his hair. Though the boy is not particularly large in stature there is a sort of silent, unnerving vehement air about him. Widened eyes are filled with pain, emotional unrest, desperation and rage. Loneliness envelopes his spirit like a black hole sucking light from empty space. An eighteen year old space traveller exploring a million year old space. He wasn't ready for the trip.
       The crescent moon spoke to the stars; the suns of yesterdays forgotten. He loved the summer night's early morning alone on the beach. Waves, moon, sand, a fire and bare feet. Currents and tides crashing and twisting his thoughts as he pulls a thorn from his bleeding side. He touches the wound then licks his hand, tasting the salty sweetness of the blood.
       The boy turns his back to the Atlantic to walk to the rocks on the beach. He always lit a fire in between the rocks of the jetty to keep himself warm while he slept. Now he sits by the fire smoking a joint he rolled in the car on the trip over; mom threw him out again. A joint always relaxed him at the beach. He would sit facing the ocean getting nice and high, a big grin appeared on his face, the pain in his eyes turned to indifference. Mom and dad's yelling became unreal, like a bad rerun on TV, a hazy station he could tune out. It doesn't matter for a while that he is misunderstood by everyone. At least he doesn't think so. He was happy stoned. The waves sound so good and cupcakes and YooHoo were never better. "I'm a king," he'd whisper, "the unknown king."
       A fading sound of distant cars is replaced by the words in his ears. "Before you slip into unconsciousness, I'd like to have another kiss. Another flashing chance at bliss, another kiss, another kiss" ... coming from his beach radio.
       "A flashing chance at bliss," he smiled. The boy always brought Jimmy to the beach at night. Sometimes it would be Lennon and his Beatles and occasionally the late great Bob Marley. Morrison was always there with his Doors. He laid back, the back of his head cupped in his hands, hair in the sand. "What's better than some good herbs, Jimmy Morrison's melodic philosophies and closing my eyes picturing a naked Winona Ryder wanting nothing but me?" he laughed sincerely. "To have her here would slightly improve the evening", he thought. He figured it was better to have a vivid imagination and a few quality dreams than nothing.
       Digging deep beneath the sand his hands push away some trash left by some littering slob. The kid always got enraged at trash on his beach. His frigging beach! Pitted, scarred hands were living evidence of his battles fought and lost. His heart is losing a cause to keep fighting for.
       "What was the use? Nobody sees me; the pain I'm in. They only see themselves and use me as their scapegoat. I'm nothing to them, so if they don't care why should I give two shits. Screw them all! Screw them! I don't need anyone ... and the one that left me after all I've done for her ..."
       "Nothing again!" he yells out loud. He looks into the hole he dug. Empty space. He's searching for something, something golden or beautiful. A plane ticket to Australia, three million cash, a fortune cookie with the answer to life, anything. There is nothing there as usual, but then, that's exactly what he expected to find.
        He's become quite used to nothing. It's all he knows. To give and give and give and give ... but never receive. He needed a little something more. Things didn't feel right.
       Black, matted hair parts around his eyes, wet against his face; falling inches below his chin. His eyes veiled in sorrow. An empty heart. A mind in disbelief at an unfeeling superficial society.
       Hanging from a silver link chain cradled between his chest is a silver cross. The chain worn about his neck is now unclasped. It's held above the hole he's dug. Sparkling by pale moonlight. Waves crash on the rocks, screaming in anger. Gray clouds begin to fill the once clear sky. The boy is upon one knee, cross dangling and chain wrapped around a clenched fist. Rain begins to pour as the heavens open and thunder crashes with lightning. Above the radio, above the waves and the thunder, the boy is yelling.
       "God!", he screamed, "I bury this cross in this hole. I don't blame You, You gave them free will to act as they would."
       Who would have ever thought? I'm leaving this cross for the next guy. The next broken man, so he'll find something in his search, ya know? There's nothing here for me. This will be a symbol of hope, or something at least. Because there's got to be something more out there. Right?
       Jim Morrison comes back to the boy's ears as the heavens ease their thunder. Small pools of tears form in his eyes as he buries the cross in the hole.
       The kid took shelter under a large "No Trespassing" sign that he broke to build his no budget lean-to. He lit a cigarette and enjoys it regardless of the rain. He smiles. Thoughts of dancing with Winona on his rainy beach to the poetic Jim Morrison supply him with a bit of happiness. He'd love to have the bare footed princess soaking wet wearing a sundress and smelling as beautiful as she always looks on the big screen. Temporarily indifferent to the outside world, he rules this world.
       For now, that's all that matters.