Even monster die

Sand, once a playground for bare feet and careless summers, now serves as a tombstone.  I dragged my friend to show me where he saw the beast. 

I had never been so close to a shark, that I know of I guess.
The poor bastard was washed up, bloated and marinating under the sun. Seemed like the ocean had enough of its bullshit. The smell hit first- sour and undeniableably death. I stared into rows of teeth permanently frozen in a snarl. They say the eyes lead to the soul, but its eyes were gone—picked clean by gulls, no sorrow, only survival.

Still, I felt for this creature.
In Awe. In Sympathy.

It dawned on me that death comes for even the fiercest things. Even monsters have to clock out. Death isn’t picky—it doesn’t discriminate between predator and prey, rich or poor, young or mature. It has an appetite for every age, race, and tax bracket. Hell, even for the beasts that ruled our nightmares after Jaws hit theaters in ’75. The ocean’s boogeyman now laid right before my feet, chewed up by time and birds.

Later, I sat with an overpriced coffee, hungover from last night’s emotions and procrastinating everything I still have going for me. And I laugh—because the only long-term plan I can actually count on is death itself. Everything else is improv. Trial and error. 

Somehow I feel my friend’s spirit in a rotten washed up shark. Maybe because the ocean took them both, or maybe because they both lived their life with purity and purpose. I miss you Eytan, thank you for believing in this project before it had a name. 

I miss you.
So much.