Status: Re-uploaded 20/09/12.
The Sea Breathes
Swell
I want to go diving.
I moved to the coast to write, but I feel land-locked tucked away in my quaint, wooden cottage, with the driftwood in the fireplace and the dried shells and sea-urchins sitting on the windowsill. They have faded, withering from cold and exposure. I too feel chilly without the water to insulate me. I shift the kindling in the grate, and the flames leap.
Above the surface of the ocean, the world is uncannily empty and silent. When there are noises, they are sharp, and have a tinny quality. They do not resonate like the constant symphony that plays underwater.
I pick up a creamy, whorled conch and hold it against my ear. I hear a faint echo of the sea’s lustful moaning, but the harsh air steals the song from her siren tongue, and it sounds flat. The sea can only whisper to me here. She is little better than Ariel, only slightly more than mute. Her voice reaches me –just– but her arms cannot.
From behind the misting window, she beckons me. I can see her from my house, atop the cliffside, turning coyly in her bed. The tang of her blown kisses wafts in through the window and lingers on the air. Come join me, she calls. Be a part of my embrace.
Tomorrow, I promise her. Tomorrow I am diving.
I’ve borrowed the gear from a friend who gave me lessons once, when he was visiting here. He lives up the headland with his wife and children, and is too busy now to make use of his air tanks and springy, rubber flippers. I am not. Nobody lives in my cottage but the sea and myself. These four, small rooms are too cavernous for us, and we roll around them like waves inside a cave, tossing restlessly.
I want to be submerged. I want to be still.
I moved to the coast to write, but I feel land-locked tucked away in my quaint, wooden cottage, with the driftwood in the fireplace and the dried shells and sea-urchins sitting on the windowsill. They have faded, withering from cold and exposure. I too feel chilly without the water to insulate me. I shift the kindling in the grate, and the flames leap.
Above the surface of the ocean, the world is uncannily empty and silent. When there are noises, they are sharp, and have a tinny quality. They do not resonate like the constant symphony that plays underwater.
I pick up a creamy, whorled conch and hold it against my ear. I hear a faint echo of the sea’s lustful moaning, but the harsh air steals the song from her siren tongue, and it sounds flat. The sea can only whisper to me here. She is little better than Ariel, only slightly more than mute. Her voice reaches me –just– but her arms cannot.
From behind the misting window, she beckons me. I can see her from my house, atop the cliffside, turning coyly in her bed. The tang of her blown kisses wafts in through the window and lingers on the air. Come join me, she calls. Be a part of my embrace.
Tomorrow, I promise her. Tomorrow I am diving.
I’ve borrowed the gear from a friend who gave me lessons once, when he was visiting here. He lives up the headland with his wife and children, and is too busy now to make use of his air tanks and springy, rubber flippers. I am not. Nobody lives in my cottage but the sea and myself. These four, small rooms are too cavernous for us, and we roll around them like waves inside a cave, tossing restlessly.
I want to be submerged. I want to be still.