When you live on an island, you inherit a more desperate love for land.
When you’re surrounded by the sea, you come into close contact with the idea of land being precious and finite. When you’re constantly surrounded by enough raging water to drown everyone and everything you have, you begin to associate land with the idea of the only kind of safety you can have on a rock, circling a star in space at an astounding speed.
Living on an island makes it hard to forget that the possibility of death is very real, always.
I stopped by that house I’d like to grow old in. It was old, and a little broken, with an uncompromising sea view— perfect. That day, she had her doors wide open, with white cotton curtains dreaming in the salty sea-blowing. All the windows were open, and, no one seemed to be home (although they were probably just in the back at that precise moment).
The house was calling me in.
But, I knew that I couldn’t do it. Although this dream-house was real, just six steps away from me, I felt the river of time flowing in between I was here, she was across.
There’s no way but through.
So, I told her I’ll walk in, but, I’ll be drenched and soaking. Wait for me.
I want a life that is a secret shore, that no one else but my Love would know. I would weep and heal there. I would love and die there. I would see the most beautiful sunset and take no picture to show someone or sell somewhere. I would see the magnificence of water and the sun, Of the moon and the mount Of the wolves and the hunt Of the colours of her crown. I would see where things begin and end, but tell no one. Because, to speak of that would be to crack the perfect cup.