The beach foam

Choose a place.
Any place. Try to picture you there. Why would you?
I can think of so many reasons. For the reasons themselves matter. They matter because they mean. And the meaning itself is the perfect reason to be considered.
I can think of many places, but I don’t want to go to none of them. Is it wrong? For the place to be livable it doesn’t need much, it doesn’t need at all. It doesn’t have to.
I tried to picture it. It was rather easy. The colors and the feelings. But all was soften so quickly, so easily. Like the heat waves that I used to see in between the dreams.

Once, not so long ago, I used to pictured myself as the beach foam. Not that there was any reason why I should picture myself. It seems even a bit forged, but I use to do that. However it took me very little time to realize: if I ever had to do that I would be nothing more than a wave. Those soft and swift, those that would take your breath away and return it to you in the same moment, suffocating as the heat or, if you rather, submerging with the inexplicably power of the waters. Endless. Yes, that’s exactly the point. I would never be endless, not to me, not to you.
But, you being the feeling of me, couldn’t we, just for a bit, keep it here, pretend we didn’t foreseen its passage and keep floating? Pretend.
I would rather fold all the assumptions and breathe the clean cold air of the dawn, for I haven’t felt it yet.