The water story

There is this one guy who always goes into a theater and orders a large water from the young freckled brunette working behind the popcorn counter.

He goes into the auditorium and doesn't care at all about what film it is playing because he has to concentrate on how to finish that gigantic jar of water.

He does it every time he goes to that theater knowing that his bladder will complain big time that night and that his eyes will swell up like two ping pong balls the second morning when he wakes up.

But he does it. And does it again.

Because he is secretly in love with the freckled brunette and he has a long romantic story prepared for her if she ever asks him why and it goes like this:

"Because I haven't cried in ten years and I would very much like to remember how it feels to have tears come out from my eyes and so I've gotta make sure that I have enough water in my body so it can spill you know spill meaning producing tears."

But she never does.

And so one day he finally gives up and orders a coke.

And she's like, no large water today?

He goes, no thank you.

She's like, cool why did you always order a large water anyways I have never sold a large water to anyone else here because you would think no one needs that much water in 2 hours.

And he swallows.

And he stares at her.

And he surrenders and goes, because I like you.

That very night she squeezes his hand so hard in bed that he starts crying. And his pathetic little story echoes in his head and he really wants to grab on to a large bottle of water.

In the dark I can see all the moments in my future lined up in front of me. They shimmer in a dull glaze, waiting impatiently to march one at a time on to my clock. Thud thud thud. I hear them collapse behind me violently. I dare myself not to look back at their bruised bodies. Those graceless faces that have been consumed by my willingness to move forward and to never stand still.

at the beach.

I feel like human life is simple here at the foot of the ocean. Complexity- like the individual grains of sand- is not so unheard of. It becomes generalized here so that life can be comparatively easy and comparatively solved. The sand together is a solid surface - but at the root, a sensitive structure just waiting for the blue water to break. If we don't all think just exactly the same when we stand face-to-face with the ocean, we all feel a sort of familiar feeling. Maybe a solidarity or a subtle understanding of our evolution to these two feet. But it's more of an a priori heart wrench: something under-described, barely explored- but for the abstract quality of its behavior. Shared reverence for something stronger. Combined knowledge of mystery. A very humble fortune of thought and gratitude- an unspoken sadness- the mist condensing into tears running down our cheeks. Our hair matted and salty on the tops of our heads- the clouds thick and shrouded above. All of our own lives at the tips of our tongues, but something unearthly in our attempt to look past all that for a less defined clarity. Maybe peace at heart. 

The ocean is a common location- a notorious place of retreat and epiphany. But maybe instead of its vastness as the means for the world's infatuation, it is the company we find in our fellow sand-walking friends. For, even if we knew all of them by heart before, aren't we freshly introduced as the waves come crashing down? Aren't we all new to each other- our intrigue like a spark for our mutual kindness and words. Or maybe it's that we all come together- each of us alone in searching, but together in good company while the waves keep crashing down.

muto.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4

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My life stories are happening faster than my life.

Little happened. But I'm so good at remembering.

from Janathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close