Starting and Ending

It begins with water on a shore.  It is not a lake, it is not a river, it is not an ocean.  The sea, perhaps; something like the uncomfortable middle child of bodies of water, unable to be fresh water but unable to call itself an ocean unless in its dreams.  This sea is relatively calm, breakers hitting the shoreline again and again, making something for its own amusement.  Rocks are worn away by the water and time; the footprints of the sea.

The shoreline more than anything else is what fascinates the man standing on the rocks.  The sea is vast and blue, building into waves and being generally predictable, yes.  And the rocks, they're predictable too:  he can see the vast patterns that time and tides have left behind clearly before him.  Yet while he can watch the sea move, it is not as surprising as the rocks, which do not seem like things that are supposed to move having clearly moved nonetheless.  They have lost weight, they have rolled and tumbled in some spots, and in others they have never rolled but have been worn into new shapes, the exposed bones of the world being picked over by the vulture that is the rise and fall of the tides to wear down into pebbles and sand and things smaller than that.  He too has some of these rocks with him, they have cut his leg when he slipped, leaving a bit of themselves in return for a blood sacrifice to some ancient creature long slumbering.

The man rubs his leg reflexively, succeeding only in spreading the blood around and in general making the whole thing look worse than it actually is.  It itches where the skin has already started to knit itself back together, the bleeding having long since stopped.  The tide has started to come back in, and it seems to him that if he does not wish to be stranded, he should turn around and head back.  At the same time, he can see more of the rocks before him, beckoning him forward, telling him that he can stand at the very edge of the continent and stare across the sea to the land beyond, if only he will stop worrying about the tides and walk with care, with reverence—for the seashore has been around for a long time and it has grown to expect a certain amount of respect from those who would walk upon it and challenge the sea.

Doubt is etched on his face, the indecision as clear as day.  It seems to him that it is a rare thing to stand where few have stood; to know that the world would show no sign of his passing but would remember, at least privately, that he had stood on a rock's surface that would be worn away and never stood on again.  But he has his responsibilities, and he was supposed to be at dinner soon, and should the sea sneak up on him it is certain that people will miss him.

But the rock's call is strong, stronger than his worries, and as he takes yet another step toward the endless ocean, as he totters on what feels like the edge of the world, land and civilization behind him and the sea before him, he smiles.  Time, for once, decides to be just a little more leisurely.  The sea is not cowed by that smile, and its responsibilities are greater than any the man has, but just the same it comes in just a little more slowly than it should, to give him time to pick his way across the land (carefully, and with the slightest of limps), back to where the bones of the earth cease to jut and instead lay flat, as if to say that having crossed the jagged rock, he has earned the respect of the ground and shall be borne safely to his destination.