I think I was too tired.

I never wrote about going to the beach on the last day before school started for all my friends, and my friend (real) who was there wrote this about it.

I’m pretty sure he’s a good writer. So here:

chaos – by Brandon Thorne

The last Saturday of summer before this school year I spent the night at the beach with four friends. I believe we reached the beach around 1 AM, though I don’t really remember the timeframe.

The absolute freedom of the deserted thin dessert expanse of sand was the first to be taken advantage of. We ran and sat and walked and rolled and yelled and all the other childish notions we had slowly taught ourselves to suppress for the rest of the worlds sake. That night the world was empty.

Being Florida, we are famous for our small waves. They were, at best a few feet. Lack of planning in advanced had left my friends and I without a surf or skim board to entertain ourselves in the dark waves.

Glancing at the waves breaking, something I have no explanation for happened. There was a vibrant, bright blue flash right where the wave broke on itself. As the wave broke and foamed as they do, parallel to the shore, that brilliance would stream just ahead of it, as if jolted into igniting itself as the waves crashed along. As though the waves were blue fire, smoking foam. With the unparalleled pure intensity of energy unbound by weight of mass flickering at its heart.

And for hours it went. In every combination of movement. A wave would catch flame at two different spots, sometimes, and they would barrel towards one another until each disappeared into the other. One wave caught at a single spot and burned away in both directions, each with an absolute equality of intensity away. Away.

But it did pass. Waves returned to being waves and slowly the water began to brighten as the morning approached, for which we had come.

Jon, the one friend I shall give name in this story, was never meant to be human. It was a mishap; his mind and his body are such pure, honest willing slaves of emotion. He was meant for wings, or fins, or tireless speedy paws.

Jon made do. As the sun began to rise and spill its yellow blood reflection on the ocean he convinced me to swim out to it with him. Running hard through the waves at first and the paddling and bobbing after towards the sun. Out into the ocean with such silence is indescribable. A waves crest blocking out the sun for a second before you bob over it. Seagulls gliding along a waves face only a few feet ahead.

Truth was out there. It was satisfaction. It was an assurance that you, and everything alive, was more than just a perpetuation of their predecessor. That it was all a luck, and an insanity. A jumble of the incomprehensible so blessed with potential by virtue of its own lack of law. An insurmountable blue flame, extinguished and re-lit with such constance that we fail to see it.

I returned to shore before Jon. Back to the dessert stability of the sand, back away from the uncontrollable chaos of Truth. Back to the sensible and the endearing dull.

For that day, Jon changed. He lost flesh and bone and matter and with it lies and sanity. He caught fire and burned away those things. He was that intensity. At the heart, at the edge of the world. Complacence be damned!