The Dream Is In The Detail

It’s like an experiment in perception. I am here but I am not here. There is only the sun and the wind and the sound of the waves. I can smell the P20 that protects me from the burn. I can feel the warm wind, like it’s a hair dryer blowing on my wet skin. But really I am still in London, in the winter, moving coloured blocks around on the computer, trying to make a living.
To the man in the surf shack I am just another piece of euro-meat, a big walking, floppy 10k note. Has he got time to appreciate the beauty of this beach, to marvel at every grain of sand, every crashing wave? Or is he somewhere else too? Counting money, buying rice, feeding the family, pushing boards and loungers around, trying to make a living.