I was very sick when I wrote this and in the middle of a big storm, but I like the poetry of it so I'm posting it. Don't worry, I'm feeling much better now.
Having converted an entire box of tissues into several small piles scattered about the apartment I gaze out into the roiling sea and wonder if I will ever be well again. The wind howls with an angry voice threatening violence as if it would tip me from my crow’s nest, pitching me headlong into the raging surf. The sky is bruised black and the sea in sympathy reflects the brooding storm where it is not white with rabid foam. Last night I heard it distantly, listening to ghost voices from half the world away, imagining that I was home, home again and waking up coming back to myself in a bed in a foreign land overlooking the sea and dreaming of rolling hills.
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| This is a picture of the storm in all its fury (minus the lightning) |
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