Yesterday I stood in the face of the ocean's waves as they beat against the shore. I saw in them the same fury, pain, and grief that so often rise and fall within me these days. Beneath the restless energy of the moment, there is a cold and bone-tired weariness. To have your voice, everything within your being, crash again and again upon the shore, and to feel as though it is all for nothing. I have to wonder, is the land bound by the sea or is the sea bound by the land?
All I know for now is that I stand in a shallow cove, the steep cliffs at my back, and the ocean raging before me. I want to dissolve into it, to have my salt tears merge with the spray that clings to the rocky shoreline. I want to be pulled into the rise and fall of the waves, guided by the moon's gentle pull. I want to slip into some free and final form, where I am no longer contained in this body of grief. All of me is spilling out and I am tired of stitching myself back together each time I am torn apart by the sharp edges of life.
Maybe if my edges are returned to the sea, time and tumult can smooth them - from shards of glass, to polished gems...
I am left wondering if these kinds of possibilities are still within me when my sense of them is so distant. The ocean understands - I can scream into her fury and she'll take it up in her own cries, for she knows what it is to act from old wounds. She knows what no one else can.
- S.
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