There's something about the sea that appeals to me. Something inside of me stirs when I'm near it. I would like to think that it's the blood of my ancestors speaking to me through the ages, it's a romantic view, I know. Which is probably very fat from the truth, I and all my family are from the north, up near the mountains, very far from the ocean and there's every likelihood that past relatives were also from the region. But maybe, just maybe, someone wasn't. It would be fantastic to discover such a link. Perhaps one of these days I'll investigate my lineage and find out what surprises, if any, are there to find.
In the meantime, I stop. I stop to listen to the sound of the waves, drifting and waving and crashing on the rocks and the sand helped by the winter wind. I stop to watch, the undulation and the eddies and the way the sunlight falls on it, the different colour of its waters depending how deep it is. I stop, to write, because it inspires me, somehow. I stop because they are calming sights and sounds. I stop and so does, seemingly, everything else around it. Apart from the wind.
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