Cusp

I love the nomenclature of the beach. Cusps are the arcs of deposited material spaced regularly along a wave washed beach. I love them for their steadfast regularity; they are my waymarkers as I walk along the edge of the water.

I have also reached a metaphorical cusp and I stand here on the divide between the warm comfort of everything that I know and what might lay beyond. If I stay here I will be comfortable but unhappy. But could I find the contentment I seek anywhere else than here? I feel that I am shutting down, quietening and living more within my thoughts at the moment. I am a mechanical; I go through motions. I feel but do not want to feel.

Nevertheless, I am taking my small pleasures where I can find them. A pot of coffee steams on the stove and there is the aroma of fresh bread. Music plays and I polish a lovely smooth pebble between my fingers.

I am still very much alive.