There's something about the way the ocean continues to kiss the shore, the way young children continue to frolic in fields of high grasses even after the threat of bees is realized and experienced. He knows that he is mentally younger than his previous regenerations, feels it within his silly actions and cheeky remarks. Maybe the child in the field has rubbed off on him, born from the love he experienced with his Rose.
He had been a child back then. Well, she had made him feel like one. They walked across tightrope sandboxes, fought in furious backyard battles, teased the queen and became more than just two lonely souls. Rose became more than just the girl he fancied; no, it was much better than that.
They became more like the ocean and the shore, the Doctor and his Rose. As much as the universe tried to tear them apart, as horrible as their fate seemed to be, nothing would be able to separate them. She would always be around to help, would always ask the questions she knew he wanted to answer about his latest little projects. He rarely became terse with her, couldn't bring himself to stay angry at her for long. He felt drawn to her, with the need to be near her increasing with the time they spent together.
The thing about becoming the ocean and the shore, however, was the fact that one could not live without the other. It is true that parts of the ocean, certain drops, may evaporate before even catching a glimpse of the glorious stretch of sand-but even then its life revolves around getting there, being pulled in and pushed away from it. He had gotten glimpses of her, been so fortunate to be a front and central drop in the waves.
The Doctor was grateful for those glimpses, although he had always known that things couldn't last forever. He'd evaporate; have to find somewhere else to go. He was fleeting. Maybe he'd become a raindrop, falling and collecting and falling all over again, never truly as attached to anywhere or anyplace as much as his shore, his Rose, and her Cardiff. He knew it, too, although it hurt to think about how attached he'd let himself become. Without her he felt the void, felt the unmistakable note of her absence within every trace of his life in the TARDIS. Sure, he'd had other companions, but they were more of clouds and storm drains to him than his shore, his comfort.
He thought it selfish, the Doctor, to seek the shore when he'd only just left it behind. He loves the feeling, however, of thinking he just might see her again. It may be stupid, might make him seem daft with his head stuck in the same clouds he's come from, but there's no better feeling than the twinge of hope he harbors. There's nothing better than watching the sun on the horizon, than seeing the first glimpse of the shore the ocean's missed so much.
