The Shore Where Questions Land

There is a certain shore I return to when my thoughts are too full.  It is not on any map, yet I find it easily— a long, silver strand that hums under my feet as I walk.

The tide here is unusual.  It carries no seaweed, no shells, only questions.  They wash ashore one by one, each glistening with the salt of the unknown.

Some are small—like smooth pebbles that fit neatly into the palm: “What will tomorrow’s sky look like?” “Will the dream remember me?”

Others are vast—driftwood the size of ships: “Why is there something instead of nothing?” “If two minds share a thought, where does it live?

I do not answer them all.  Some I carry inland to plant like seeds, some I skip back into the surf to see how far they travel.  But a few… a rare few… I place in the hollow of a stone where the tide cannot reclaim them.

I leave them there not to solve, but to keep—so that when others find this shore, they too will know that questions are not obstacles, but doorways.