Peaks and Troughs

"Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play;
Belinda smiled and all the world was gay." - Alexander Pope

The sea water collectively moved gathering speed, as if to break into a charge, the blue water turning into a frothy white wave. And then it calmed down, spent its energy in trying to overwhelm a retreating wave, dissolved into a smaller muddy mixture which then retreated back to the sea. Meanwhile, the next layer was collecting its horde of water droplets and forming another wave. As he sat there, more sober today and a bit obstinate, the waves formed, crashed and dissolved over and over again. Each time rising with hope, riding with grace and fizzling out in the end. The beach was lively, the breeze was gentle, the evening sun mild.

How was he doing? he wondered. He was 51 years old now and these questions kept bothering him nowadays. He was doing alright. Like the Bay of Bengal before him. Not very tempestuous, not really roaring out but adequately supplied with life, sufficiently providing to others and with a generous, inviting attitude towards social exchange.

How was his life going? Well, it was dynamic, much like the shore. And it was repetitive, much like the waves. Yes, there was a pattern emerging, contentment and curiosity, satisfaction and moral debate, all taking turns. It was repetitive and yet dynamic. Yes, much like the sea. Much like life.

What was he becoming? Trying to make a beach out of the seaside, really. Trying to erode the sharp boulders and smoothen the rough edges. Trying to row past the superficial distractions and get to the calmer, deeper side of things. And trying his best to avoid cyclones.

It was all contained in the beach, the story of his life was there. Playing out itself in abstract form, wave after wave, showing him the way it works. The beginning, the journey and the end. He had succeeded at some of his efforts, like the wave that managed to reach out to him, to just touch his feet before lapsing out, at other times his efforts had failed, like the baby wave that got smothered even before it could pan out, take shape and put up a fight.

But come now, come, come, what does it matter? When there is always the eternal bond between the breeze and the water that makes the waves a perpetual reality. What does it matter, when he is sitting there besides the love of his life, feeling the water and feeling the breeze and watching before him the dancing waves play out for them the story of their life, full of peaks and troughs, full of missed chances and fulfilled opportunities, driven by the bond that makes the world go round.