As though the land were her destiny, a lover she had never known…

Melancholic steps to a Van Gogh’s starry night. A form she shed for awkward limbs, a guise that never truly fit; a guise she knew was the colour of her fragile worn as a second skin. She could never walk the streets; the cobbles pained her like lost souls in their grey and muted longing. On, until the meadow she would reach where she fell to her knees with parched lips that mirrored her thirsty soul. Quiet leaves began to fall as though to dress her with a breeze that soothed her moon lit burn. She listened to the night and all its silent wisdom told. Yet she knew the land would soon cast her back, and she knew the sea would feel her difference and the fear she now felt to skim her eyes over depths of forgotten tranquillity. She had never felt what it was to paddle, to dip her toes in shallow comfort where each place she loved met in harmony. She had never known how to be with both, and still just be…

A melting clock she saw in the sky, reflected from the ocean, and she knew it was her time so she closed her eyes and ran. Ran until her form flew, flew until she dove and when she dove she was the water, and the water was her being. Each memory she took as a keepsake, a trinket from her journey, and she hung each one on coral trees that offered shade far beyond the shallow, far beyond the crowded reef. Her ocean carried stars again, stars from the meadow where the daisies shone her path and the willow that gave her shelter all now immortalised in rippling solitude. Later, when the hours no longer held her, she glimpsed her memories on the shoreline. There she kissed each one with tears that fell as waves that gently broke a breeze, a breeze that echoed softly in an opal shell of song.

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