A man once walked into the sea
and did not drown—
for he believed it wasn’t water,
but memory.
He waded in like stepping through
an old, undeveloped photograph;
each wave a shutter click,
each splash the sting
of something long unspoken.
The salt did not blind him—
it scalded his conscience.
Deeper still,
the water cleared.
He saw not escape,
but return
by a stranger door.
The sea does not forget.
It waits—
patiently,
like remorse.
We name memory a private thing,
but perhaps it is not ours.
Perhaps it is
geological,
layered,
seismic.
To remember is to disturb
something older
than what lies beneath.
To forget
is not to lose—
but to bury.
And so, he trod lightly.
Each step he took
pressed across
his own
grave.
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