the first morning of the 13th month

I write this looking at the sea from my window. As far as I can see there is only the sea. Quaint little boats from a nearby fishing island break the harmony from time to time. But as boats disapper, the waves remind me that the sea is not monotonous even without boats. Far away beyond the horizon, the sea meets the ocean and the ocean meets another ocean and the other ocean meets another one. There is no beginning and no end. Looking at the sea extending beyond the horizon, I realise that true meaning of life is not being captured in definitions. Cycle of life goes through sets of 12 months. But the real life rests beyond the horizon of the 12th month. Life is about the 13th month.