Choppy

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Choppy

Steel blue waves crash against the shore. There is a man standing on the beach, watching each troff of white foam collapse in on itself. His brow furrowed, eyes blankly staring off at the hazy mountains. The wind cold and cut with flakes of frost, the lake in front of him hissing and whirling, a maelstrom of discontent echoing his own.

Putting one step in front of the other he comes close enough that the water is now lapping at his feet. A slight chill beginning to creep into the bottoms of his feet. Still, he stares outward, eyebrows tucked inward: still furrowed and his mouth in a hardline of seething discontent.

The water invites him, silently accepting whatever he wants to do. Happy to help in anyway it can. The frigid embrace tightens as he walks out further and further. Up to his chest now, his body sways with each pull and push of the current. Yet still, he is fixated on the horizon, mouth still drawn tight.

Pressing down on his shoulders the water slaps him, in response, he kicks out. No longer standing in the water but floating now. His eyes closed to the salted bath in front of him. His breath held and face underwater. His choices no doubt running through his mind as they've done before. His mind settling on the only one possible.

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