Pacific.

The rocks were full of secrets. The tiny crevices between them mere frown lines discouraging me from finding out the truth laced throughout their granite existence. But, I already knew. A sad truth but one not unlike my own. A realization that up close, the things we once marveled and guffawed at, are never quite as extraordinary as they seem. At a distance, sure, they glisten with the sheen of an irredescent pearl. But up close we find that the beauty was only a mirage. An illusion. That things can never be as great as we can dream up in our minds. That the stories we believe to have defined us turn out to be nothing more than embellished fabrications. Scenes from movies, or books we never quite finished, pieced together in our memories to create a personal montage of a life that never quite existed. That one day, we'll realize the legacy we've exhausted ourselves in creating was no more tangible than the proverbial skeletons in our closets.

I could disregard the ocean. Constant, yet changing. The crest of each wave drawing from somewhere deep within me a hardened distrust. Whether it be woven in my DNA or built up from years of consequential hardships I associated with the "great" pacific, it was there. Evident in the way I could never bring myself to the shoreline, or even bring myself to let it's salty fingers grasp at my sun-worn feet.

But the rocks, they would never lie to me.