Where Even The Gulls Don’t Fly

I wrote this piece a while back, but it seemed a perfect accompaniment to the selfie I made today…

With one hand outstretched, palm opened, dim light gently resting against luminescent skin, I am floating in the darkness, in the mystery. Perhaps there’s been a decision to surrender. Or maybe it was just my time. The water laps rhythmically at the edges of my mind – the cold clean clarity it offers is tantalisingly close, and yet I’m not even sure that I want it. I seem to prefer this fog, this untethered place – a boat released from its moorings to drift at the mercy of the currents.

I imagine that little boat being carried further and further out to sea, the waves growing in size and ferocity the greater the distance from shore. And perhaps there is a person asleep in the boat. Maybe she lay down because she was tired – a bone-deep weariness that caught at her ankles like sea kelp, before dragging her down to the depths of consciousness.

And then, when she wakes, she discovers her predicament. The boat rocking violently, her skin drenched in salt spray – so far out, the gulls don’t even fly here. This place is well beyond the edge – in fact, she can’t even see the edge. Only sea. And more sea. But, despite this seemingly perilous situation, there is no fear. Just a quiet acceptance that borders on remembrance.

Ah yes, she sighs. I have been here before. I know this place. It has been calling to me for such a long time. So long, that it would gnaw at my memory like toothache or a poorly healed fracture. And now that I’m here again, the danger of the moment is offset against the final easement of this long festering wound – the one that now lets the light in, as cloud cleaves from cloud to reveal the sun.

The wind drops and, while the waves are no less wild, and the situation no less perilous, she begins to enjoy herself. Even without the means to direct her vessel, she has finally stepped into the role of captain of her own fate. Everything, every possibility, every eventuality, rests right here, in the palm of that outstretched hand.

And she knows it. Just look at that expression on her face. She sees it, and she knows. But more than that, she claims it as rightfully hers. There will be no more bowing to the will of those who would seek to control her, numb her, tranquillise her wildish soul.

She has now experienced home here – out here, beyond the edges – right in the midst of the mystery. And she swears to herself, she will not allow herself to forget again. Not ever. The waves continue to rock the boat, but she casually lies back, her spine aligned with the bed of the boat, and feels herself cradled. The sea croons to her its ancient lullaby, and she has one last fleeting thought that this too is familiar, before she drops into dreamless sleep.