It is now two a.m. and by all counts one should be asleep. Only the insomniacs wander about aimlessly at this hour, and if there are two things I cannot get enough of, it is sleep and food.

I find myself in my balcony, watching the other mad people still patrolling the beach. They arrive every evening in their painted vans with frazzled speakers, but today they are mercifully quiet. There's something calming about the sea, I'm positive of it. It's the people, these noisy people, that encourage each other to ignore the natural calming spell the waves cast on you.

As I watch these people, I notice that the waves are completely enveloped in darkness, hidden to the naked eye. I recall a night when my dad took me driving right to the edge of the seaside (or so I though, because it took ages of driving along the beach to get there) to a pier that led right into the middle of the waves. My dad picked me up and deposited me on the wall and then climbed up himself to sit beside me. It was dark and I was a bit afraid of the darkness and the ominous sounds of the waves splashing ferociously somewhere in the pitch darkness below my feet. My dad then pointed out the waves. Once I had seen them, I couldn't imagine how I could not have noticed them before. The frosty white tips of each wave as it came down towards us was glowing a solid neon green! My mouth hung open as I looked at my father for an explanation behind this phenomena, one of those sensible, solid reasons he would always have handy which involved measurements and formulae to dole out to me when I was expecting mermaids and elves. He smiled and looked up at the sky instead, obviously wanting me to follow suit. Puzzled, I lay back and looked up as well and saw their infinite beams of light, all coming straight to my eyes, the entire universe converging in the iris of one person who looked up. I went home with the waves roaring in my ears and the universe in my eyes.

I don't know why I remember that, or if it even happened exactly that way or if I wished it did. The curse of having a horrible memory is that things pop right out and make you wonder if you're going insane via the route of an overactive imagination or if you actually had a decent life once. At this point, I don't suppose it matters either way.