What's past is prologue

We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again, And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. – Antonio, speaking to Sebastian Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 2, Scene 1

I’ve been here before, standing at the edge of the water, wet sand between my toes. The water is cold, and I can feel the goose bumps climbing up my leg. The ocean is a dark green color, waves capped in white foam as they crash up against the beach, each wave reaching up on the sand to almost caress my feet.

There’s something hypnotic about the sound of the waves. A slow even rhythm, pushed on by the slight breeze. My heart beats in time with the waves, a gentle relaxed beat.

Would that I could stand here all day, watching the ocean, hearing the crash of the waves, feeling the water against my toes. Would that a day could last a year. Would that I could freeze this moment of pure relaxation in time.

Wouldn’t that be a dream?

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