As I was matching my footsteps into the prints of a large dog I suddenly remembered the last time I'd been at that particular beach.
It had been a moody walk. One of those I'll take because I really need nobody in the world to know where I am at that exact moment. (Although I once played hooky in HS for this very reason and then Casey & Lindsay ditched school as well- to find me. It didn't take them very long to find me in Barnes & Noble. Fuck me...even my rebellion/depression is predictable)
So anyway, it had been one of those walks.
I was most likely moping, scowling at happy couples and giggling children, asking myself why I'd chosen a beach for social-escape in the first place.
Then as I was searching for seashells I saw one of the whitest seashells ever. It was so white. I stopped walking and stared down at it. It was one of those little shells that spirals up to a tip. The shell was sitting upright, basically pointed right at me, and I felt instantly happier. This perfect seashell had been waiting for me.
I leaned over to pluck the miracle shell from the moist sand and then squisgh my fingers mooshed right through it. I had pinched my fingertips through a seagull turd.
Despite my disgust and disappointment I still managed to marvel at the metaphor. When something in life looks perfect and feels special - it's usually a pile of shit.
So today I steered clear of any and all seashells. Someday I'll start looking again..