Diary Of An Island Girl


When I was younger and I felt the way I’ve been feeling these past few days, I’d make my way to the sea.
I’d just stay there all day- either by myself or with my lover- soaking up the sun, getting tossed by the surf until it was time to go home. Then I’d eat dinner in silence and go to bed, meditating on the feeling of floating in the water with the sounds of the waves crashing in my ears.
The hardest part of growing up is being landlocked. I miss the sea. I feel most complete when I’m there. All the elements are there- earth, fire, wind, water.
(No, Captain Planet, I wasn’t calling you. It’s okay, I got this.) 
I miss the taste and the smell of the salt. I miss the way the enormity of the ocean made me and my troubles feel so small and insignificant. I would be hypnotized by the strength and obedience of the water, knowing it could and would, always and only, go so far; that it would always recede, that it would always return- pulled by the moon, pushed by the wind, warmed by the sun. And I was humbled by the fact that though it seemed calm and beautiful on the surface, magical, beautiful, terrifying things were held within its depths. In its embrace was life- sweeping, swirling, teeming LIFE. In its embrace was death- cold, suffocating, mind-numbing death. Though I still cannot swim, I tried desperately to learn. Though it is beautiful and it could kill me, I would run to its arms every time, whenever I needed to heal.
The storm within me would always be called into submission by its majesty.
I miss it today; today I need it.

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