March 13, 2015
Maybe I wrote a poem about them. Maybe that's why the image stays in my mind. The men, sitting and watching the water at the shoreline of the ocean. They're wrapped in blankets, silently waiting. Amassed, staring toward the horizon, needing to die. They have no more energy to carry them onward. They have outlived their dreams and are waiting for the phantom ship that isn't coming ashore. I can't tell, because I can't see their faces, whether they're content, or sad, or desperate. It looks like a tragedy to me. Beached whales. In solitude and in solidarity they sit.