When I find myself wandering at the edges of my reason, I steer my course down dusty lanes, maneuvering slowly through floating nettles and thorny brambles, plundering through daisies to open water and sky.
Fighting, flying, aching; all of it goes away with houses, streets, and pavements. There is nothing else lived-in before us now, at least not by things like me. Things that build, eat, fight, kill, inhale oxygen and think thoughts of sky and doom. There is just water; space with secrets human can’t hear, noiseless expanse of underwater.
The violent deepness of the cold is pleasant; I stand in the water until I am not-quite-numb, imagining the small heart of my feet beating red, slower and slower against the falling freezing. It’s a matter of meters, between the sloppy shore line and the encroaching quietness. I am just stepping on the very outside skirts of the ocean, numb and black. It makes me long for her center, a place that must be voiceless and frozen. Silent.
A blue jellyfish skids by in the shallows. Shockingly blue, the smell of lavender on a hot day or the feeling of oil on skin. It has such a lonely song in its trailing tails, a deathly dance.
Children fish for crab claws, fish tails, the tuberculous bit of a pink lumpy coral jumping against the rocks. They carry these dismemberings out like trophies, with shouts and celtic cries of war.
The seaweed lies in it’s island formations, buffeting against the waves. I hesitate from walking through them, ploughing instead through the estuary’s made by time and tide. I worry that if I step in those little floating nations, something might bite or sting. Perhaps in these shipwrecks of plants, something is still in occupation. Living in their own little floating life, so close to mine.