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Forget the Celebrities: Read about MY Crazy Life!!!
My CRAZY Life: Was it only a Dream?
Suddenly I found myself alone on a strange beach. Not far out, directly in font of me, a large ship passes hurriedly by. It’s one of those huge oil tankers that transport the lifeblood of our increasingly industrialised world. As I watch it slide effortlessly through the dark, murky waters, not one sign of life is in evidence along its entire length.
Taking note of my immediate surroundings, and the situation I find myself in, I cast my eyes left and then right. This beach, this deserted beach that I have somehow been landed upon is flat, so very flat, stretching far into the distance. Looking down to my feet, and the damp sand beneath them, it’s all too obvious how different this beach is from the warm, golden one in sunnier climes. This beach is definitely closer to home. It reminds me of Dollymount Strand, a few short miles from the city of Dublin. A beach that because of its huge size and splendid isolation, on first sight always energises my soul, but which, on closer inspection of its grey, cold compacted sand and abundant ever-present litter, creates within me a sigh of pensive melancholy at how uncaring a large section of mankind truly is.
Directly in front of my shoe, almost touching it, a green plastic bottle languishes, waiting for eternity to erase its unwanted presence. I grab a spade (I don’t know where it came from) and begin digging a hole. After only a couple of inches, the sand has changed dramatically into a congealed sticky blackness that turns my stomach, threatening to expel its last meal, complaining of the obscenity I am putting my senses through. With the help of the spade’s sharp blade, while trying to ignore this imminent expulsion, I tap the offending article into the newly excavated hole. It falls in with a plop, the seawaters rushing after it, covering the bottle in a slimy mess of liquefied grunge. My senses, fixed, temporarily locked onto the demise of the green plastic bottle, are suddenly jolted and my heart skips a beat. There is water - everywhere, all around me. Where is it all coming from? Only a moment earlier the waterline was many yards away, but now, with the hole well and truly consigned to the annals of oblivion, the lapping waters are surrounding me. It’s lucky that I am wearing these Wellingtons -heaven knows where they came from! Why, I haven’t owned a pair off Wellingtons - for years. But here I am, standing on a strange beach (is it really Dollymount?), facing the imminent arrival of hide tide, wearing a pair of Wellingtons.
The tide and its rushing waters continue rushing in relentlessly, waiting for neither man nor beast as it has done for millennia. I can’t stay here. I turn around and only then do I realise how far from shore I actually am. Wasting no time, I set of walking in a brisk pace toward the safety of dry land. With great strides and even greater determination of mind, I splash through the encroaching waters, remembering days long ago, splashing through the puddles of my childhood. It’s fun! Life should always be so. We lose far too much of the magic of youth as we journey through life. I’m giddy.
After only a few minutes, I am finding it increasingly harder to walk - the waters having now advanced several more feet before me. Even the splashing that I enjoyed only minutes earlier has now taken on a more serious tone. My pace is far too slow. I will have to speed up considerably if I am to have any hope of escaping the encroaching waters. Breaking into a saunter, I soon catch up with the waters’ vanguard and, for a time, I even outpace it, but the promise of dry land is still a long way off.
I am now almost halfway across the huge, cold beach of my eternal winter, and still slightly ahead of the inward bound waters, but I see a problem ahead. Less than twenty yards ahead of me, there is a dip in the land. It’s only a couple of feet in depth - three at the very most, but wide enough to pose a real danger.
I quicken my stride. I try valiantly to outpace the rushing waters. I must cross the depression before the tide fills it in. As I race full-pelt into the sunken area, I can feel the soft sand slipping, sliding beneath my feet. It’s hard to maintain my speed up. I try. It’s difficult. I am afraid. I glance over my shoulder. I can see the waters tumbling down the slope, churning the sand bubbling, boiling. I’m still ahead of it. I still have a hope of outrunning it! Shifting my gaze to the far side of the dip, and the relative safety of its brow, I head onwards with renewed determination. I can outrun it. I know I can.
Soon I am striding, boots splashing, up the far side, but the sand, the sand here is so loose underfoot. My speed slows down. I can’t slow down. I must reach the top. The water’s rising, my feet are churning, the sand, I’m clinging, fighting, climbing. No, I’m lying. The water’s reaching over my boots and into, my feet are freezing - I’m loosing, tripping. Beneath the water, I’m slipping, sliding, dying. Finished. I am gone… Beneath warn, dry sheets, sweet smelling linen. I am back in my bed, oh how I’m smiling. How did this happen? Was I only dreaming? It must be so; it’s still not morning. I roll over and cuddle up anew. But what’s this happening? What’s this spilling? Where did this water come from? Am I wearing Wellingtons?
You can email me with your thoughts and comments: email me
I am the crazy-mad writer of children's stories,songs, nursery rhymes and so much more!
© Gerrard T Wilson 2008 |
