Here is something a little different… I hope you enjoy.

I picked a flower. I didn’t know why I picked it, but I did. It was soft and pink and smelled like distant rain. I didn’t know why I picked it because it was hours past midnight and no one would notice if I wore it in my hair. I knew its pinkness, because I walked past its tree everyday. At least 4 times. I walked past because the tree with its soft, pink flowers that held the promise of fresh soil in their bloom sat on the path that led to the sea. It sat in a reverie, lost in thoughts of the Things Trees Think. I could tell. Its branched were heavy, laden with the possible and the im; one curled up and out and back from the trunk, to rest its fist on the cheek of the tree. My tree, with the soft, pink flowers that sniffed of future life. 


I was walking. Down to the sea in the glowing glow of the moon. And it was a glowing glow- not a soft, nor an eerie. It brought a roundness to the face of things, a shallow depth in a colour I cannot explain if it is not there. Yet the moon was neither here nor there itself, being of both one mind and another. I was walking to the sea to swim in the unspoken light of the undecided moon; not alone but in the company of My New Friends, who were only a week old (in being My New Friends, not in age, as it would be odd to walk with such young things to the sea in the hours past midnight , and being so small I wonder if they would enjoy it, as they might be tired), but were still My New Friends, and we were walking to swim in the sea, and I had a soft, pink flower that smelled like distant rain but I didn’t know why.

The ruins were among us, though I suppose we were among them as they had been there first. We walked through them, white stone upon grey, stark arches and windows and ceilings carved of stars; standing for millenia in many lights of many moons, the moon itself being the same but shining in many different moods. The ruins stood and I walked, with My New Friends, yet it seemed as if we were still and they were not. In some way, without movement or song, the ruins danced; teeming with life like a coral reef, were the fish invisible and made of magic. They spun stories through the air, the spun life lived and lost and lived, they spun in a vibrancy only the past could see but only the present could feel. Yet still I walked, to swim in the sea with My New Friends and the flower that was soft and pink. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The stones crunched under my feet. The beach was made of stones, not sand, being preferable on windy days but only then; though one day when the ruins we build join in the dance of those before, maybe then the beach will be made of the sand of the stones that crunched beneath my feet. Or maybe not. The sea was right there, in front of me, to the left of me, and to the right; but then only a little because of the cliffs, flat matte black and impervious to the glowing glow of the not full moon. We shed our clothes, and when they fell the stones were silent. I wore my shoes to the water, because the crunching stones were also sharp stones, and, while not unfriendly, they were unforgiving to the carelessness of bare feet, as they whiled away the days until they became sand.

Splashing. Laughter. The night, with its moon and its stars and its cliffs that didn’t care, was silent, except for the damp greeting of the shore and its waves. But we were not. Giggling and giddy, I swirled and twirled and twisted in water that was almost more salt than sea, and the phosphorescent glitter of tiny creatures lit up; around me, on me, next to me and under me; and as I swirled and twirled and twisted with the sparkling brightness it seemed as if the stars were raining, falling down, a galaxy below and above, combining with me in a universe of my own, in water that almost more salt than sea. We played, The Stars That Came From The Sea and I, and My New Friends were lost to me. Worries and what, care and concerns, inhibitions and self consciousness and Wandering What Other People Think melted out of me. And that is when I felt Him. 

He was The Ocean. Not he, in the way boys and men are he, but He in the way power, strength and possession are He. He in the way that called and coiled and collided, consuming me; not asking but demanding me. The Ocean. I felt Him, I felt His pull. I was scared, frightened, yet lost in my world of sea stars and star stars I was tempted. Tempted to fall into the place below and sleep. To join The Ocean in body and soul and leave all else behind. And I knew, I felt, I sensed, that it was not up to me. That that night He wanted, He needed, He desired and He would Have. My New Friends were away in the safe place that is without danger, without adventure, without soul. Only strides away they were lost to me. But the Ocean needed and He would Have.

But then I remembered. I remembered that I had a flower, a soft pink flower that smelled like distant rain, that I had picked without knowing why because it was hours past midnight and no one would notice if I wore it in my hair. I had the flower, I had kept it in my hand. So I gave the flower to The Ocean. He wanted, He needed, He desired and He would Have. But I was not ready, I was not done, I was too young to take and be taken. I could not go with Him. But I had a flower, a soft pink flower filled with the promise of life that came from a thinking tree. And I gave it to The Ocean so he could Have, but not have me. And He was happy.

I felt Him leave, and The Ocean was just the ocean again. With the void came a promise, a promise that He would Have, that a flower was enough for now, but He would want, He would need, He would demand again. And He would Have. But I worry not– The Ocean is ever changing, muddle-minded, quick to love and quick to lose and quick to forget. Unpredictable. He will want again, but perhaps it will not be me. Until then, I am safe. Back with My New Friends in a place without adventure or soul. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. We picked up our clothes and left the beach which might one day be sand. We walked through the ruins which danced and sang without movement or song, under the glowing glow of the uncertain moom that was giving way to the yawns of a waking sun. I walked past the tree was still thinking, always thinking, that I had picked a soft, pink flower from, that had had saved me from the sea. And then I fell asleep, and The Ocean had my dreams.

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