Room 227

I imagine myself
on the bed
in room 227,
staring out across the boundless Pacific Ocean,
the loud, clear sounds of crashing waves fifty feet below.

A roar that drowns out pelican calls and seagull shrieks.

Over 100 rooms here,
only this one has an unobstructed, soul stirring view
of pure deep-ocean blue
from the bed.

At just the right angle
I can easily imagine
my self
entirely alone
at sea.

And as I sat imagining
this favorite place, being in Pismo,
in room 227, staring out at the sea,
I suddenly imagined
being there
not alone.

And I cried.

A third party there
talking, breathing
would mean
not being one
with the sea,
not alone
with the sea.

No absolute freedom
to get lost
in my thoughts.

...“So, what’s the big deal?”

I’d try to explain
why I love the room,
why I love the view,
why I need the time
alone with the sea,
away from the world.

What if,
no matter
how hard I might try to explain,
no matter
how many words,
how intense the emotion,
I never adequately convey
what the place,
the room,
the view,
the sounds,
the smell,

the sea means to me.

If I were to invite someone
to witness this place,
share with me
that space,
they might only confirm
no one else I know
feels what I feel,
imagines what I imagine,
or experiences what I sense and believe.

I’d feel
suddenly alone
thanks to the company.