I was awakened by the sound of a young man crying by the ocean.
He stood at the shore with a bag in each hand, his weeping louder than the crashing waves, his body bent beneath their weight.
I approached quietly, careful not to disturb his sorrow, and placed my hand gently on his shoulder.
He turned to me and said,
“For many years I have been gathering these bags — all the things I couldn’t say, all the moments that made me angry, all the pain others gave me… until they became heavier than I am. I wished for a way to be rid of them.”
I asked him why he was still holding them so tightly.
“I thought I could be stronger,” he said, “that I could open them and return each thing to whom it belonged. But when I tried to sort them, I realized that by carrying them for so long, they had already become mine. I became their only owner.
Now, not only have I lost what I once held closest to my heart… I must carry these bags everywhere I go.”
He turned back toward the sea and began to cry again.
After a while, I walked away quietly,
my hands empty behind my back,
wondering
why he didn’t give the contents to the sea
and return home
a free man.