If the sea alone defines the course, then the miles between might seem illusory, as if every bend and every hour were merely the prelude to erasure. Yet perhaps the hours themselves are the true sea, and the end is only the fiction we invent to justify their passage.
Rivers that meet in laughter beneath the sun, or clash together against stone, or share the silence of the plain, may know a fellowship as complete as eternity. Duration does not confer reality; a single moment, if absolute, is indistinguishable from forever.
The journey itself is a scripture of water. Each bend is a hymn, each shore a psalm, each merging a testament that will not repeat. The mountains and forests are the witnesses, the meadows are the fleeting illuminations. They remember what the sea will forget.
In the end, the ocean receives all names, but the earth keeps their echoes. Valleys guard the lost chords, trees recall the shimmer, ridges the vanished course. To believe that love is the end alone is to forget that love is also its own path, the very music of its unfolding.
Perhaps the sea is not the final goal, but the shadow of all journeys. Perhaps the journey is the true eternity, and the sea only its mirror.
DoubleSpeak 