in the short time that your walk along this road allows you, you may find yourself burdened by expectations (praise overwrought), its weight stifling, the proverbial blanket (that puts out the fire); it rarely fans the flames of your creativity (fanning flames already a marker of failure of imagination.)
you may consider the ocean then and its ignorance (blessed) of expectations, its relentlessness, its force, its it (wasn’t that the point of calling so-and-so the ‘it’ girl, they had ‘it’, an undefinable something, true too of the nature of the ocean, would you not agree?)
you’ll have to reach down, far into the pocket where your you resides, feeling around blindly, touching a coin, a piece of string, the prick of the end of a ___ before you feel what it is you were looking for in the first place, the thing that was hidden by other people’s ideas of who you are and what you can achieve (that blanket from paragraph one, remember?)
whether or not you’re able to retrieve it from its inky depths is up to you (or not, it may bubble up on its own, or be thrown from the ocean, like a burp, sudden and unexpected, perhaps a bit of indigestion, acid reflux) to land on the shore, exposed; passersby stopping to stare and point, someone may even call the _________ and they’ll come and throw water over it to keep it alive and wonder how they’ll ever get it back into the water. (this now the end of that analogy.)
as you walk along the path down to the ocean, you may want to reach back into that pocket (see paragraph 3) and pull it inside out, dumping out the contents, that last bit of lint sticking to your fingertip finally catching the breeze off the ocean and floating away.