Untitled

Jack Wolff

Mr. Kinkaid

18 September 2013

Period 4

Ocean Breathes Salty, But at Least it Never Stops

 

Let’s take a step back in time, a little over two years. It’s the middle of the summer of 2011, and I’m having a great time of it. I’m lying down on the bed of a cottage in Northern Michigan, and I’m listening to music. But something’s different than usual. Instead of simply hearing the music, I’m /listening/ to the music, the melodies, the tones, but most of all… The lyrics. I don’t know what brings this about. I don’t know how it happens. But it does. The song I’m listening to ends, and I perk up a bit, as I hear the opening chords of Ocean Breathes Salty, by Modest Mouse.

As I sing and groove along, I hear the lyrics for the first time, even though I can sing them all by heart. (Your body may be gone, I’m gonna carry you in. In my head, in my heart, in my soul. And maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll both live again. Well, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, don’t think so.)

Something begins to form slowly in me, though I don’t know what it is yet, this feeling, this trepidation in the pit of my stomach. (The ocean breathes salty, won’t you carry it in? In your head, in your mouth, in your soul. And maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll both grow old. Well, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I hope so.)

As the song progresses, the feeling begins to slowly expand, rise through me. ([You missed, you missed.] When the earth folded in on itself. [You missed] And said “Good luck, for your sake, I hope heaven and hell-”)

My breath starts becoming labored and my hands shake, albeit very slightly. (“You missed, you missed.”)

The black ball in the depths of my gut makes itself known, as I feel heat rising to my face. (“Are really there”)

My arms and hands tremble, my eyes widen, and this feeling builds in me, (“But I wouldn’t hold my breath”)

the ugly, smoky cloud rearing its head, revealing its true nature. (“You missed,”)

Terror (“You missed”)

Desperation (“You wasted life, why wouldn’t you waste death?”)

and desolation all become clear to me in the same instant, crushing me with the weight of knowledge, the knowledge that I will never truly know what happens (“You missed”)

when I die, the crushing realization that one day, (“You missed.”)

I, John Keller Wolff, having done nothing of worth in my life, (“You wasted life,”)

may simply cease to exist, (“Why wouldn’t you waste death?”)

and there’s

nothing

I

can

do.

(“You wasted life, why wouldn’t you waste the afterlife?”)