A Hidden Beach

I dreamt I climbed where no others could climb (though they greatly desired to). The climb was arduous, up many dark, sharp rocks. Upon completing the climb, I found an ocean. Dusk was falling and the water was dark but glistening, the foam glowed as it sloshed about. I waded out into the water, torn that the others could not come, that I could not help them, and reveling in the freedom to be alone. I sat in the surf and let it wash over me, nearly to my nose. I let it tug at me. It was warm and refreshing and smelled pleasantly of salt. It healed the wounds I'd gathered from the climb and washed away the guilt I had of leaving my friends. I sat, but I could not for long. I could hear them calling me back. Wishing me too climb back down the treacherous rocks to join them on their way elsewhere. I woke up then.

I am still torn. I have no secret beach, no elusive hiding place. I rarely recall any dreams. I've never even been to the ocean. I have no idea how surf feels against my skin, how the salt smell makes everything clearer. But I felt it in the dream. I feel it now, the tug of my hindered and unrealized desires. My will versus the individual and collective wills of everyone around me. I do not know what to make of it.