This is of course a work in progress, and is in the very early stages of a redesign, but enjoy anyway!
In each neighbourhood, in every city in the world, there is someone like me, who spends their waking hours in a daze, leaning against window sills, pressed to the glass. Each of us waiting for a first glimpse of something new, or something lost. I would spend those sulky winter afternoons there, tracing my fingertips along the curves of the coast, each time imagining it as your path. That you’d gone, over those waves, far from this old city. Disappearing there, folded into a fine line, stretched forever along the horizon.
Tonight there is little to be seen from the window, the evening light clogs the city's arteries, Salt gathers on her windowsills, Waves dance across her skin. Its sound alone; a spurned lover out in the rain, is enough to cast sorrow to the base of my lungs, where it fills them like ballast. It leaves me with an unshakeable feeling that there is a call I must answer, that the city outside holds some great truth I could not hope to grasp alone. A promise that through some configuration of streets, I would find myself at the foot of something I had been searching for, yet been unable to find.
It quickly became a feeling I was unable to dismiss, the rattling of the vanes only increased, I began to feel that there was some truth I should have realised by now, even if only through the simple connection of randomly neurons, yet by some terrible coincidence, I had failed to reach. It was as if, at that moment, the error in my reasoning had become so severe that the world around me was shifting to deliver the truth to me. A feeling akin to a faint buzzing between the ribs, something burrows and coils there, a string around a finger, a note on the fridge; it cries: ‘Do not forget.’
Here is where the city falls away, where it reaches its grasping hands ever outwards. From here I can make out the vast silhouettes of the bluff that frame the view of the horizon, atop it sits a great tower, an august light that stands unmoving, upright, among the masts that buoy in the waters of the bay. From that height there can be no horizon, nothing that can go unknown. From the sight of that light there must be no reason to ever return, how could you ever have left?
Looking at it now, I feel a deep desire to step into the waves, to carry myself to its base, and cast myself upon its rocks till I am flotsam on the sea. If there were to ever be some centerpoint in the spiral of my life, it must be that tower, the way it yearns for me. A needle forced into the earth, a place of return, a place of departure. The light turns to face me, and turns away again. It is an ecstasy so brief, and so complete, that I could chase it always. Yet Here where the arteries of the city pour from the body, the salt wind hounds my step, and the cold bites, the frigid touch of the water caught upon the wind as it lands upon my face is enough to discourage such a direct path. My skin squirms, I shiver and turn up my collar .
