I remember how the sea touching the sand turned quick in color. A blue blackness from the day rushing in on us as we circled the beach town, three hours away and a short walkthrough. Getting there never fully being remembered, only the signs leading to nowhere or my death. People speaking in tongues and in terms of my fate, all watching us unknow the way back to the bus stop, slipped through salmon air—backtracking instead of walking through to the other side.
The town was a confusing country of tourist concessions and unhelpful storefronts; the busloads of people were placed there to confuse the way. Travelers were revealed as tailor-made barriers reflected from one’s dissolution of self, sometimes disguised as passersby in groups of people who don’t know the way yet are returning from someplace. I spoke to them and then translated it back to you; in a place where the provincial bird was refuted to sing, I sang the native speech.
Day blinked dark. We orbited, misguided, and frantically searching for a current. I remember wanting to cry, needing and demanding myself not to fold. We sought an abundant coast heading a pink sky blessed with heaps of sand as living props. Instead, we mounted dusk and swallowed the air of bottled grief weighted within the clouds. It took four hours total to forage a whole city vanished beyond the edge. And there, exiled into a bleeding silence, encircled by the most prominent tourist attraction this far south from the mainland, was our oceanfront, black, and unveiled.
I dreamt there was no beach, no sand, no people. I dreamt we never came to the edge. I led the front of our coursing below the wine-hazed mirrors of my shame. I recall being alone. You didn’t hold my hand until my return; I had to walk with myself.
And this is the telling of the way, this is how, and now you know.