“One day I wrote my name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.”
The above lines are a paraphrase from Spenser, Amoretti. It hides between them a conundrum of reality, an rabbit-hole leading to the uncharted territories of the thought-space, scary but fascinating ! Existentialists would know…
I am looking at the endless expanse of the sea—a sea to the eyes, a metaphor to the thought. These moments are dreamlike, for they create the perfect opportunity for the mind to escape into the boat of metaphysical musings, to ride along with the waves like an adventurous sailor.
The mind wanders in search of answers—answers that many philosophers have sought since the beginning of philosophy. They sailed through these seas endlessly, before their boats were capsized in the storm of mortality. But the island of the absolute knowledge—the answer to everything—remains unconquered.
A sundown and a rising tide…
I walk back to the hut with a sense of uneasy tranquility, looking back at my name on the sand for one last time, hardly visible under the ebb. And I remember the words of a sailor called Sartre who said:
“Everything has been figured out, except how to live.”