The Salt on the Tongue

The air near the coast has a weight to it, a thick, briny dampness that clings to the skin like a second, cooler layer. I remember the feeling of sand trapped in the cuffs of my trousers, gritty and insistent, rubbing against my ankles with every step. There is a specific sound to the ocean when it meets the shore—not a roar, but a rhythmic, heavy thrumming that vibrates through the soles of your feet, traveling up your shins until your entire skeleton seems to hum in time with the tide. It is the taste of salt on the lips, sharp and metallic, that lingers long after you have turned your back to the water. We build barriers to hold back the wild, to tame the restless surge, yet the water always finds the gaps. Does the stone remember the ocean’s touch, or does it simply wait for the next wave to wash the memory clean?

Hanks Tseng has captured this quiet tension in his image titled Triangular Wave Block. The way the concrete meets the mist feels like a conversation between the solid and the infinite. Can you feel the spray against your own skin?