superego scolds aloud

you mean to tell me you breathed all of that in?
with what intention?
how is this helping your fitness?
you say it's important to feel? how important is feeling when your bare feet are only friends with the texture
of the ground on the way  
of that slippery, unforgiving shore of shards?
you could be stepping
you could be stepping towards goals
you could be shedding
that fucking buzzzzzz buzz buzz back
back of the head buzzz
shedding that
like an actual August
fur coat, unzipped, shirked
soaked,  
dead,
drinker of your sweat
unreprimanded but
no longer drinking.
 
you could be stepping  
towards goals
but you are standing still.
the journey is not a given,
little weak speck of intake of experience,
whine
and watch the waves. They do not hear.
they do not listen.  
They rock a frigid liquid disposition
 
intentions
 
they slam where they want
be it the spot a body is
or isn't.
 
you mean to tell me you are too high to smell the salt of their warning?
you are howling with the sea gulls
while a hurricane is forming
you are not locked on this coast
this is one moment of it all
one view
which will pass, too,
but you,
 
you are trembling and goose bumped
by the indifferent wind  
whipping over the pissed pitch-black water
you have frozen.
part of you is terrified this beauty will consume you.
part of you expects it to.
part of you knows
it is not really beauty
 
but insists on stillness
stands by the cliff
courting a sky scribbling charcoal
sending scratchy thunder under your ribs
where it has become their new tenant.  
you are so terrified to leave.
after all,
this is the first powerful thing
you have ever seen,  
 
each step is another hesitant line in a sketch
of the path to rest.
the itching of progress
when you aren't sure you are ready  
to change your vignette.
instead,
you stay here,
taking far too many of the ocean's breaths.
afraid to move from this rapture  
afraid to believe in the beauty it tells
as well  
as the beauties to come.
 
somewhere, white sands waiting;
here,
real:
roaring.
solid
blackness,
slapping you in the windscathed face.
 
I understand your delay.
you are right to feel this beauty.
but you are wrong to think you should stay.
 
wrong
to think you may.