I’m watching a post-apocalyptic anime series. One thing that frequents my mind is the name of a sacred text: Old Testament of the Dead Sea. How intriguing! In fact, Dead Sea scrolls were found at the ruins of Qumran, which are handwritten copies of the Old Testament dating back two thousand years.
Setting aside historical facts, letting that name resonate is enough to stir up a sense of mystic wonder. Standing alone in front of the ocean and walking along a deserted sandy shore, is alluring to think about.
A Japanese friend once told me, his fishing village believes spirits are born from water. The ocean must be packed with spirits then.
One night by the sea, you might sense them stirring in the sound of the waves, rising from white foam drifting ashore to ask, “Who are you?” You remain silent, terrified to reveal your name to darkness. They ask again, “Are you an angel or a demon’s child?”
You want to believe you are a product of heaven, but they continue, “If you are a child of God, why human loathes themselves so?”
Even the most optimistic person, would once despite themselves, intensely enough that they wish to forget, to destroy. This self-loathing could either drive some to climb out of the deep well of fate, towards a light called hope; could curl some up in a shell; or could drown some… I suddenly think, the way one deals with self-hatred let one’s soul be classified as outer or inner skeletons. Imagine, if your soul appears, you might see it curled up in a shell, or leaping around like a chimpanzee?
Spirits of the sea throws a piece of driftwood at me, reminding me that the story has wandered too far.
The driftwood washed ashore, white and wan, showing twisted grains of enduring trace from countless storms. This beauty brings it home with me, sitting on my bookshelf. I speculate, could a mermaid out there display bones of drowned bodies?
An entire exhibition under the sea!
The spirits sigh again, once more the story has gone too far, they’re weary and long to return to the sea.
“Look, the final ritual!” they utter.
It is dawn, the spirits invert into the sea while the rest of their essence floats upward.
The hour of prayer.
It’s time for the spirits to recount stories of their lives into the waves. All at once, so loudly that no sound can be discerned. The sea holds everything, like a vinyl record, that’s why waves murmur.
After finishing the stories, they rise inside a bubble aiming for the sky. Will they turn into clouds? Or something else—no longer important. This life has already been told.