Me vs Robert Smith vs Camus

I am covered in sand. The sun is bearing down on my flesh, slowly aging me. It is the only thing that can do it. My mind stays young and sharp. My heart is probably reverse aging. But the sun takes my days away from me; takes other things away too. I push my feet as hard as I could against the ground to make a spot more permanent then the ones I typically occupy. The good book says something about people who build houses on the sand. I am a professional beach carpenter. Clouds sneak past above me. I hear jets but see no evidence. I stare at the sun. If I burn a hole in my retina then when I look to my left she won't be there. It is preparation for the next day, for the rest of my life, so I don't notice her walking away.

Everything is noise. The buildings collapse as I walk unfamiliar streets. No one knows me here, no one hears my voice, reads my words, or breaks bread with me.

Trees fall into the sea. People form committees to prevent this tragedy again. A parade route is planned. Someone hires a poet to commemorate the day. They dedicate a rock to where the tree used to be and put up a fence so no one gets too close to the rock. Or the edge.

I sit next to the stone. Next to the edge. I fall into the sea. No one notices, no one stops their parade, no one give a second thought.

But the sky grows dark. Storms rage in the distance. The waves crash backwards. The ocean wants to roll back time. It doesn't want another body, it was filled to the brim. It builds a life boat of the lives it destroyed to keep me afloat. It curses the sun, it curses my heart, and it curses the sand.

Spit back out onto land, dry, but cold and hardened, no one noticed I left.

Or that I am never going back.