........ ........ ...... ..... . . . . . . . .  . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .............. .............. ................ ................ . . . . . . ......... .......... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ....... ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  .............. ......... ............. ...  ........... ......... . ................ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    ........ .... .. .. ....... . . . . . . ......... ............ ........ ..........  ....       ..... .... .. . . . .        ...... ... .. ...... ... ... ... ... .....       . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [ ]  [][] [][][][] [--] [__] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ................. ........ ...... ..... . . . . . . . .  . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .............. .............. ................ ................ . . . . . . ......... .......... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ....... ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  .............. ......... ............. .............. ......... . ................ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    ........ .... .. .. ....... . . . . . . ......... ............ ........ ..........  ....       ..... .... .. . . . .        ...... ... .. ...... ... ... ... ... .....       . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ......... A beach is supposed to exist mainly to walk, to stroll, to jog along it endlessly. From the horizon to the horizon. To ramble. Certainly, a beach is known to exist first of all to lie on it and to do nothing. To bake, burn, roast, fry oneself and sizzle silently – a beach is known to be a kind of barbecue. Doing-nothing consists of smearing various creams, oils and ointments all over the body, trying to read books, newspapers and magazines while the whiteness of paper is trying to blind one's eyes, playing cards, playing ball, digging in the sand, burying one's body in the sand with the help from one's hands, building castles, flirting all around, and of many many other things because doing them is just doing nothing. However the most important is walking. Strolling. Loitering. Rambling. Jogging, too. Strolling along a seashore (or a landshore) is something more than just strolling, much more than an ordinary walk. Walking along a beach is strongly symbolic and nostalgic. This is so due to the space. Nowhere else such space does exist. Even on the mountain top there is no such space – in the mountains and on the tops you can't perceive and absorb this space with your whole body, absolutely entirely, absolutely ecstatically, all the time you need to be careful and look down, control the ground, check the path, otherwise this space will absorb you, devour and swallow without the slightest mercy. Besides, the space in the mountains is tousled, has a shape of sharp shark teeth, looks horrifying like a chainsaw, like a saw band ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ While here the space is smooth, soft and soothing. You can walk and walk dancing, jumping, hopping. Stroll and roll. You can somersault. You can dive into the waves and come back to the shore. None of these things can be done in the mountains. The strong symbolic character of the beach walk manifests mainly in vanishing foot prints. It's fascinating, isn't it? We leave foot prints, so clear and so easily visible, recognizable, they may last for ever, so strong they are. Then splash splash and the prints are gone. The beach looks as if nobody was ever walking here. Isn't it a beautiful symbol of passing away? Of trifleness of our existence? Of a vain effort to leave something after us? And this vastness of the mild and gentle space. Yes, gentle. That's it. Not of that cruel one showing sharp shark giant teeth, but of a delicate, luminous, friendly space ready to take in all our sorrows and dreams, though in the same time penetrating like a mirror.... These are the reasons why we stroll (or walk towards an infinity) not noticing the most important thing. We don't even think of it. We don't give it a damn. Our heads are brim full of the mud of symbols and symbolicness and symbolicity. The eyesight is as if shrouded with mist. The ears are as if stopped. We are as if stoned. And we can't see there is no boundary between the sea and the land. The border line can't be indicated and drawn. It is and it is not. It exists and it does not exist. As if we were walking a tightrope which does not exist. A tigthline which has not been drawn. A looserope. A looseline. Which is, does exist, but it is impossible to put the foot on it for nobody knows where it is in this very moment. It trembles, it vibrates. All the time. And we tremble and vibrate with it . . . . . . . . . Walking along the beach is not an ordinary walking – if we mean just rambling without any aim and reason – it means the aim of this walk is to ramble without any aim, we just want to move a bit, to stretch our legs, or to breathe a gulp of fresh air no matter how stinking this air would be, we don't want to reach any place, we are heading towards no specific place.... While walking along a beach, we are walking to a place, specific place, we are going to reach the horizon, we are not cruising in the well known labyrinth of nearby park, we are walking straight ahead on this invisible sinuous line. We don't notice the most important things because our attention is focused on the horizon we are heading to, our attention is grasped entirely by collectable objects and things and there are plenty of them everywhere. This is really interesting: during an ordinary walk we usually collect nothing unless this is a special walk to collect special things, for example yellow leaves or chestnuts, while strolling along a beach we usually do collect things. First of all we collect shells. Sometimes little stones, but less often. Sometimes we collect pieces of polished wood. Even more rarely we do collect barnacles (do you know anybody who collect barnacles? - I don't collect them, but I do love them, I like them very much and I don't know why). Certainly, the closer to the horizon we are the more we expect to find a trunk with treasure. Well, at length this could be a bottle with the map of a treasure island in it. A map of an island where a castaway resides will not make us really happy, unless there would be a document attached bestowing upon us the right of possession; well, it's quite nice to be the owner of an island, even a very small one with only one palm tree in the middle.... It can happen, but very seldom, that someone tries to read what birds write with foot prints on wet sand. He or she collects these tales, or poems. Grasps them away from greedy, stupid, illiterate waves. Nobody collects poems written by our feet. That's why we don't know whether they are poems or just swear-words and curses. ~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~