Over & Over. 25th of July.

I could let the fog roll in and engulf me, as if I were disappearing. Eyes closed, standing perfectly still—porcelain. I could let the tide wash over my feet—ice-cold, rhythmic, certain. I crouch down, scoop up a palmful of water, and bring it to my lips.

The light of a cargo ship flickers in the distance—at least, I think it does. Childhood memories feel just like that: like the light of a cargo ship passing through the thickest mist. There without doubt, yet not quite at all.

Anger is alive, out there in the world. I know this because I've felt it. Love is too.

I walk down the jetty, take the sun lounger, and lay it on the water—this is my vessel, my slow ticket out. The water is so clear that nothing escapes my sight. I let my fingers glide through the surface, creating the smallest of waves. Those waves join the tide, and the tide finds my feet, standing out there in the mist. I'll remain here, all the while, on the surface.

And what of my size? Quite often these days, I feel as though I have no size at all. When I catch, for a fleeting moment, a sense of the world and the fact that I’m alive—that's when I feel it. Tiny, wonderful, and perhaps terrified.

I give in and beckon for willing hands to reach down from the sky, to scoop me up in a palmful of water, and drink me in. I observe all of this, over and over again.