Bits from my (real, paper) journal
With nothing but the sound of water crashing gently on the rocks in my ears; nothing my eyes see but the sun reflecting on water like glass, white foam pooling in the places between stones, and the empty pages before me, it is easy to feel timeless.
~
My words are not enough to remember this. My memory traces the image more hazy each time, and a photo cannot capture the powerful impact of the waves on the rocks, a sound at all times comforting and imposing, relentless, ever and never changing; nor the smell, sweet and pungent, that is not, as some might think, of the sea, but rather the delicate membrane between the land we walk on and the sea that stings us, comforts us, and swallows us whole.
~
And now I fly home. Home, home to my bed and dust allergies, home to structure and familiarity, a passing respite of place before the true home of person. Fly, fly over the sea that chilled my legs and warmed my heart, fly as fast as my corporate metal wings can take me, away from a land whose sand infiltrated my hair, my bed, the spaces between my toes, and tried to steal a piece of my soul. Fly home, because this is not home, was for when I needed the home that solitude became, and now with fingers crossed in front and a kiss blown over my shoulder, I leave you for lands that are not my own and will never be because I do not want to posses a land even metaphorically. As I drive through snowy fields I will find myself in the place that owns me.
~
My words are not enough to remember this. My memory traces the image more hazy each time, and a photo cannot capture the powerful impact of the waves on the rocks, a sound at all times comforting and imposing, relentless, ever and never changing; nor the smell, sweet and pungent, that is not, as some might think, of the sea, but rather the delicate membrane between the land we walk on and the sea that stings us, comforts us, and swallows us whole.
~
And now I fly home. Home, home to my bed and dust allergies, home to structure and familiarity, a passing respite of place before the true home of person. Fly, fly over the sea that chilled my legs and warmed my heart, fly as fast as my corporate metal wings can take me, away from a land whose sand infiltrated my hair, my bed, the spaces between my toes, and tried to steal a piece of my soul. Fly home, because this is not home, was for when I needed the home that solitude became, and now with fingers crossed in front and a kiss blown over my shoulder, I leave you for lands that are not my own and will never be because I do not want to posses a land even metaphorically. As I drive through snowy fields I will find myself in the place that owns me.