A child sits on a beach in the afternoon sun. Warm sand comforts them from below and a gentle breeze flows through their hair as waves peacefully lap at the shoreline. Birds chirp in the distance, gracefully singing the song they were born to share. The serenity of the scene stands in contrast to the child, their face hidden behind their hands, silent tears streaming through their fingers. A gentle voice speaks from afar:
“Don’t cry little one, I have you.”
The child looks around, confused, with eyes still wet from fear and sadness. A warm breeze gently nestles around them and eases their despair. The voice speaks again:
“Tell me what is upsetting you.”
The child chokes back the tears and speaks with the voice of wisdom yet undisturbed by age:
“I can feel myself changing. I am forgetting joy and everywhere I look there is just more trouble. Why are the adults all so broken? Am I going to become like them?”
The warm sand between their toes continues to radiate into their feet as they continue to speak:
“It feels like the walls are closing in. I can feel life becoming long, and I’m forgetting what it was to be new.”
A few moments pass before the voice speaks again:
“Don’t fret little one, I have you.”
The warm air continues to surround the child, slowly drying their tears and bringing peace. As calm acceptance washes over them they pull themselves upwards, not just against gravity, but against a world they are no longer a part of. They walk into the distance, following the beach, and aging as they do, slowly becoming the adult they were always destined to be.
A figure watches from nearby. A mature being: All grown up and perfectly who they were supposed to be. Their face does not yet show the lines of age, but their eyes tell the tale of a tired soul. A spark is missing, and their lips have not smiled in years. As they watch the child walk away, becoming smaller and smaller until they are but a speck in the distance, a single tear falls from their eye and splashes into the sand. The nearby birds cease their song and the waves become still, bringing a silence across the island that mirrors the watcher’s inner world. The gentle voice speaks again:
“Don’t cry little one, I have you.”
A frown appears across the watcher’s face as they draw their tears inwards.
“I haven’t been called little one in a long time. Who are you?”, they demand.
The voice is silent. The watcher stands and looks around, their eyes narrowed, their lips pursed. The breeze continues to blow past them, and the sand continues to warm their feet through the heavy soles of their dark brown shoes. The watcher speaks again, louder this time, bordering on a shout:
“I asked you a question!”
The sand suddenly billows around them, irritating their eyes and filling the nooks between their clothes and their skin. They back away but cannot escape the sandstorm that has surrounded them. They flail desperately trying to protect their face, but it’s to no avail. The sand yields to every gap and finds every way through their clothing, until their shoes are heavy and their skin irritated.
“Tell me what is upsetting you”, says the voice.
“Enough!”, cries the watcher in frustration. As if obeying the command, the sand falls to the ground, the island returns to its peaceful repose, and the watcher recollects themself. They dust their clothes off and empty their shoes, but cannot escape the discomfort of the sand clinging to their skin.
“Come this way and wash”, says the voice.
A gentle breeze guides them towards the ocean. Though they resist, a pull deep within urges them forward and they find themselves wading into the water, clothes and all. A current carries them far away, until the island is a distant speck, and they find themselves treading water in the middle of the ocean. In panic they try to swim back, to fight against the current, but they only tire themselves to the edge of drowning.
As the watcher loses strength they try to call out, to call for help, and to signal their distress, but their cries go unanswered. Their mouth barely remains above the water, and as their limbs tire, they sink below the surface to watch in horror as the light of the surface fades. Soon they can hold their breath no longer and their lungs fill, but not with bitter salt nor painful water, but rather the soothing flow known only by those who have been parched. As their limbs go still and their breath returns to normal, tranquillity overcomes them.
They speak into the ocean through the soothing water:
“I can no longer feel myself changing. I have forgotten what growth is and everywhere I look there is just more of the same. Why am I so broken? Am I going to be this way forever?”
The water continues to flow in and out of their lungs, not painful, but soothing. It carries inwards a sense of calm, and it takes with it the weight of years passed. Tears gently leak from their eyes, immediately becoming one with the ocean.
“I feel the walls closing in. I feel life becoming short. I am learning what it is to be old.”
A few moments pass and the voice speaks:
“Don’t fret little one, I have you.”
The cool water continues to fill their body, slowly quelling their pain and bringing peace. They remain for some time but continue to cry, and as calm acceptance washes through them, they swim upwards with effortless grace, not in fear of the abyss below them, but in awe of it. Not rushing, not dashing, just moving with the flow of the ocean. As they breach the surface, they find the island nearby once more, and their attention returns to the child still walking into the distance. Without rushing, they return to the shore and follow the child into the distance, aging as they do, but returning to who they always were.
Not far from here, a third being sits gracefully in the wet sand, aware of the two others, but focused on the water as it greets their skin and rolls back into the ocean. Aged and wise, their body is not what it once was, but their face displays a grace that years alone cannot guarantee. They watch as the sun begins to set in the distance and a few gentle tears stream down their face, flowing over their smile, and falling into the ocean.
The voice speaks again:
“Don’t cry little one, I have you.”
The old one speaks with gentle conviction:
“I have known you long enough to know where this is going. I am upset because life must come to a halt in due time. I know there is little time left for me, but I have known so much joy and kindness, seen so much love and compassion, and learned what it means to be one with others. I am not weeping for myself, I am weeping for all those I must leave behind.”
As the sun begins its final descent below the horizon, the voice is silent, but the old one hears it regardless. They hear it in the wind, they hear it in the waves, and they hear the song of the birds. They hear it in their final heartbeat as the voice speaks one last time:
“Don’t fret little one, I have you.”
The old one closes their eyes a final time and lays back as the waves rise and engulf the island, taking with them the footprints in the sand, the trees and their lyrical companions, and all else that makes the island what it is. As the water settles and the island is lost below its surface, the voice speaks to no one in particular:
“Death comes for us three times in life. First as we leave childhood and let our naivety die; next as we leave adulthood to recover what was left behind; and finally as we leave life itself and death becomes us. It’s the fate of all those who are granted life, and while some defy death once or even twice, none can deny it thrice, for every life is a death sentence, and only death can balance the scales in the end.”
The sun now having set deep below the horizon yields to the night sky, adorned with countless brilliant shining lights, each reflected on the still surface of the ocean. Without a ripple in sight, where once was an island now sits an endless sea of stars in every direction: A perfect image upon a perfect mirror. A few shine brighter than the rest, but all have beauty in their own way, and none compares to the serenity of the entire sky. Between each point of light lies an infinitely dark abyss: a pit as deep as any can go, a substance as cold as any material can become, and a canvas as blank as any could be. Within the abyss the voice sits silently, waiting patiently for all who listen, and remembering its days on the island.