East

In the distance, the breakwaters surface irregularly. The intervals come and go; small shoals dashing to the surface. Way out there the water is much deeper- its touch barely reaches my toes. Insecure and cold, I bury my feet under the sand imitating the stretching miles of empty shells.

Were it not for the wind, the world would be completely bound by this movement; the waves that swarm in the distance. My sole knowledge rests in this constant, bruising unknown. This is where I will return once everything else is quiet.

It’s a Tuesday evening, late April. The time and type of year where the touch of the wind is still a chill and yet- the water isn’t as desolate. A milky white desert; a most unformidable clarity. It is the first time I am untouchable: I am floating on the surface of it all just for a brief moment. In this brief moment, I decide I am never going back.

With my back to the West, I walk parallel to the coast. Barefoot and slumping forward, propelled by the coax of the gulls above my head. East into another unknown.

When the sun droops over the railing of day into night, I do not cease. Life is bound by expectations of routine, but light will not limit me now. The sand is my own. Ahead lies the crests of cliffs and the scope of nocturnal birds, soft crescents in flight. Their backs and fronts an alternating orange glow as they spin continuously before the sun. That is where I am going.