Life's Littorals (with a partial request)

[Arkanj3l]

Some prose I wrote a while back. I consider it my magnus opus.

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Somewhere in life's littorals, being's beachhead and élan’s intertidals, there comes a time where you must draw a line.

You look around you and you look at yourself, you look upon that tumbling surf and its hypnotic grazing of the sand, the way that the waves waver but nevertheless keep on sweeping away. You stare at your reflection in those oscillating waters and you envision your visage in the random, rotating particles encompassed by them. What you see is none other than yourself. Everything exists in moments, and in that moment, you see everything: who you are and what you've been, but most of all, what you could be.

Life's dynamic, like those fluxing fragments of wet earth tumbling behind the viscocious surface. Likewise, how dare we perpetrate our life around the concept of coursing the future? It's unthinkable, like those grains of sand daring to resist the tidal forces, gravitating themselves towards arid land and never seizing to fight 'til the orchestrator allows it to settle. We don't control the clock. We are, at best, time's tenants, and, at worst, second's slaves. Our lives surround time, and time envelops us. Unknowable is five years the future, unthinkable is ten. Yet we try hard. We try so very, very hard...

Pursuit of happiness - when America's founding fathers wrote that paper whose name I can't recall, it was the pursuit of happiness that they marked down. We don't have the right to happiness because man's nature is to be discontent. It is a consuming being, each cell contributing to the macro-organism phasing the current state Earth into mere nothing, leaving nothing left to sustain our existence. The day we die is the day the universe decides to throw a party.

Somewhere in life there is a threshold you cross from boy to man, and somewhere in the sand you must draw a line. You draw that line and look up to those stars, and then you realize that, all this time, the stars were watching you all along. You then look at that small, simple mark you've made on life. This is the line by which you define your integrity. This is the line that displays who you were, the line that is who you are, and the line that defines who you should, nay, WILL be. That line that you draw is your one act of free will. That line. That decision. That mark.

The surf continues to tumble and graze at your newfound identity. Your life is slowly chipped away. Time is the ocean. Time is unphasable. Time is unstoppable. Time will swallow you whole. The line is smoothed by time and your identity is watered down by society. But fuck if you can't make a deeper line in the meantime, and fuck everybody else who says otherwise.

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For bonus points, could someone manage to put this in wallpaper form? It'd be really cool. I always read it to calm my nerves and I want it on my desktop.