journey, part one

looking out towards the horizon
where the sea
     meets the sky
wandering aimlessly along this
empty forgotten beach

wet sand crunching
     beneath my feet
as the tide rolls in
on this frosty, chill morning
     cold wind against my face

how do i know this is a beach?
     and the question seems
     silly even as i think it
this is obviously a beach
     wet sand
     crashing waves
     seagulls overhead
this is obviously a beach

could i take a handful of sand
away with me
     when i leave
and leave the beach,
     this obvious beach,
unmolested?

well, of course i can

this must be my morning
     for silly questions

so, is this pile of sand
     in my fist
no longer a beach?
no, of course not

(I resist the temptation to
     roll my eyes
     at myself)

it is a pile of sand, then?

well, of course it is
     (i'm trying my own patience here)
and if i pluck away
     one grain of sand
in one hand i have a pile
     of sand
in one hand i have a grain
     of sand

so, a pile of sand is somewhere
between this one grain and
this pile in my fist?

yes, of course

and how many grains of sand
make up a pile of sand?
somewhere between one
     and a lot, obviously

but how much? how many?

at what number do grains of sand
become a pile?
become a beach?

i look at myself, incredulously
(as if seeing myself for the 
     very first time)
and cannot suppress
     the feeling that
          deep down inside
          somewhere dark and musty
          somewhere that never sees
          the light of day

i am, in fact, an idiot.